


A Match Into Water (We're the Things That Love Destroys)

by tussock



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Peterick, Vampire!Pete, vampire!william
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tussock/pseuds/tussock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An origin story, loosely based on the 16 Candles music video.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remember Me As I Was (Not As I Am)

**Author's Note:**

> [Insert usual "I don't own any of these people or characters or lyrics" disclaimer here]
> 
> Please allow me some suspended disbelief for any emergency response personnel allowing these events to unfold in this way. I know it's a stretch and the circumstances are a little tenuous, but, hey, what the hell. 
> 
> Loosely based on 16 Candles AU.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> xo Tuss

Blood. Crimson everywhere, thick and warm; the heat of life dotting the pavement. When they recall the attack in future years, no one will be able to say precisely when it began, but each will recall the ending in vivid technicolor, red blooming behind both eyelids. As far as anyone remembers, it was just past dusk and the four men were walking home together. Andy insists they were making fun of Pete. Joe was, predictably, high, with a mellow blur tinting the edges of his vision. Patrick remembers nothing but the screams.

It takes only a moment. Pete ducks a few feet into the dark alley with a good-natured smile (at Andy's jibe, he claims) to take a whiz, and the echoes of laughter are cut short by a yell. Patrick is the first to react, calling out and whipping towards the sound. 

“Pete?!” 

A dark figure, a man, by the shape of him, is holding tightly to Pete's body, mouth tearing at flesh. Pete screams and whimpers, shudders in his arms as blood runs in coppery rivulets down his angular frame. Patrick does not think. He leaps. 

Andy and Joe (only a weed-moment slow on the uptake) follow suit with a horrified cry. The attacker seems startled, as though he had not realized there were others, and drops Pete's form, turning and vanishing into the shadows.

And suddenly, Pete is dying on the ground. In less than half a minute, everything in their world is shifted as Pete bleeds out on cracked asphalt. But Patrick's world isn't even shifted so much as it is shattered, the pieces aligning around his best friend's twitching form. He throws himself across Pete, dislodging his own hat in the process. 

“Pete,” Patrick pants, grabbing his torso and pulling him as close as he can. Patrick bunches the bottom of his shirt and tries to apply pressure to the leaking wound. As tears well behind his glasses, Andy and Joe are fumbling with a phone, begging for _someone, please, anyone. He's dying. Yes, there's blood everywhere. We're at Savannah Street and Main. Hurry!_

“Pete,” Patrick's voice cracks as he pushes against the blood, willing it back into his friend. “Pete, hold on. The ambulance is coming. Don't leave me.” Pete's pained cries and groaning screams twist around words he can barely speak. 

“It feels...like...I'm...on fire!” he shouts between haggard breaths. He convulses in Patrick's arms. 

“No!” Patrick is desperate. “Pete, no, don't let go. You can't _do this_.” The shuddering continues until Pete's form falls still. The ambulance is coming, but it's nowhere near fast enough.

Patrick gasps in deep, panicked breaths. He feels black encroach on his vision but he just can't get enough oxygen. At his side, his black fedora lies in Pete's blood. In his arms, Pete's chest is motionless. He shakes the body, screaming. 

“Wake up!” The edges of his voice are rough with hysteria. “Pete, wake up!” No matter how Patrick shakes his shoulders, no movement replies. “I know you can hear me, Pete, WAKE UP!” And now he is sobbing, gasping for breath between ragged noises of anger and fear.

Even though he won't say it, Patrick knows that the man he holds is dead long before the medics arrive. When they do, he is gripping Pete's body like a lifeline, and he screams as they approach, thoughts tingling with edges of madness.

“No, he's MINE,” Patrick yells, at once melodic and guttural as only Patrick's voice can be. Andy tries to approach with an extended hand. 

“Come on, Patrick, come here. Let them take him,” and Andy has seen wild possession in Pete's eyes – expects it, even - but it is nothing compared to the burning heat of anguish rolling off Patrick in this moment.

“You stay away from him,” Patrick chokes, “just stay away.” He clings tighter to Pete, body wracked with violent sobs. No one dares come closer, dares to intrude on the sacred space. Patrick knows nothing but the feeling of Pete in his arms, across his lap; cooling blood and cooling skin; hot tears clinging to his eyelashes and blurring his vision, wetting the inside of his glasses. Andy and Joe speak to the paramedics, attempting to explain the unexplainable. In the end, an emotional plea and a not-so-small bribe are enough to send them away. That, and a promise to call again when Patrick is ready to let go.

Shock and grief distort their sense of time. It could have been hours that Patrick lay clinging to their fallen friend. However, it could have been minutes. Either way, Andy and Joe pass the time whispering between them, trying to piece together a name for this tragedy. _Suspicious_ , Andy calls it, and Joe agrees, replies _Detroit_ and _you've heard the rumors_ and _what if...?_ He receives a bowed head and a slow shake in reply. A shrug. Doubt. But uncertainty nonetheless. 

Finally, with a few choice words (like the threat of the attacker returning), they convince Patrick to stand, carrying Pete in his arms, and finish the short distance to Joe's apartment. Patrick's hat is left behind.

When they talk about it later, Joe describes Patrick as “delusional”. He falls asleep on Joe's couch, holding to Pete, alternating between crying and growling into Pete's thigh; spitting out _you traitor_ and _how could you_ and _why_. He still won't let anyone else touch him.

When the sun begins to tint the morning sky, Andy pulls Joe aside.

“This is insane. Pete or no, you don't get to keep dead bodies in your house.” 

Joe nods in agreement, and they are discussing methods of remedying the situation. Most of their plans include some variation of _hold Patrick_ and _call the police_. They are still mumbling to each other in the kitchen when a tired, sleep-heavy groan drifts from the couch. Andy ignores it, assumes it is Patrick adjusting his grip on Pete in his sleep, but Joe's eyes go wide and he turns to the living room. 

When the noise comes again, his eyes lock with Andy's. He's not sure of much, but he's positive it's not Patrick. The two men scramble around the corner into the adjacent room, almost tripping over each other. They barely recover in time to stay upright, but Andy nearly falls anyway when they catch sight of their friends on the couch.

Patrick is asleep where they left him, arms wrapped tightly around Pete's legs, face against his knee. His glasses are on, but wildly askew, and his breathing is shallow, most likely a side effect of troubled dreams. Pete is laying, head on a pillow, blood stains covering the back of the couch, but the wound is noticeably absent, and his fingers are clenched in a fist across his chest. When he groans again, Andy runs for Patrick, shaking him awake. 

“Patrick,” he whispers urgently. “Patrick, come on, come here.” He tugs lightly on Patrick's arm, trying to extract him from Pete's cold legs. Joe comes up behind him, reaches around to rustle Patrick's shoulder and urges, “Wake up, Patrick. Hey, come on, come with us.”

Confused, disoriented, and still definitely in the throes of some vague kind of sleep, Patrick rises to the pulling on his arms. He yawns loudly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

“What are you -” But Joe's hand is over his mouth, and before he has the presence of mind to bite down on his fingers, Patrick is dragged into the bedroom, door shut and locked behind them. Anger snaps him out of sleep immediately, as does his sudden lack of Pete. 

“What the FUCK do you think you're -” he starts, pushing his glasses back into their rightful place on the bridge of his nose, but Joe cuts across him with a _SHH_. 

Andy's ear is pressed to the bedroom door, listening for anything – rustling, shifting, groaning. 

Joe holds Patrick's shoulders, meets his eyes. “You've heard about Detroit,” he says with meaning. Patrick's face registers confusion, followed by understanding and _you're a lunatic_ in rapid succession. 

“No, I've heard NONSENSE being spread around by some paranoid druggies. This is INSANE, you know. Let me -”

“NO.” Andy wheels to face Patrick. “No, INSANE is what you have been doing. INSANE is bringing a body home and SLEEPING ON IT. The possibility that something darker than we imagined is going on here? That's not insane. Unlikely, bizarre, hard to accept, sure. But insane? You've been captaining the insane bus tonight, and nothing about Detroit is on board.” He's trying to keep his voice low, but he's as upset about Pete as anyone, and through with Patrick's nonsense on top of it, and the distressed anger is pushing through. “And maybe what's going on in Detroit is damned lies, or maybe it's not, but either way, something is not right here because that body out there? It's. Not. Dead.”

This seems to stun Patrick into silence. Mouth slack, lips parted ever so slightly, he stares wide-eyed between Andy and Joe. Andy stares right back, less with shock than determination, and Joe pulls out his cell phone. 

“I'm calling Brendon,” he announces. “Maybe Panic knows something.”

As Joe moves to sit on the bed and make his call, Patrick steps close to Andy and breathes, “What do you mean, 'not dead'?” 

“Look, I don't know, but he was making noise, and last time I checked, people typically shut up once they're dead.” There was something panicked in his eyes. “And that gaping hole in his neck? Gone. I swear to you, completely gone.” Patrick looks as though he's trying to decide if Andy is on drugs or lying. 

“But all those Detroit rumors are nonsense. You know that. Just some overactive imagination crap Gabe probably came up with after pounding one too many after a show. Tried to bang a groupie who got too teethy, you know? Freaked out, called everyone. That's precisely the kind of shit he'd do.” Patrick is running his fingers, still caked in dried blood, through his hair. On the bed, Joe must have gotten someone on the phone because he is whispering frantically. Patrick stutters, “Th-that shit's impossible.”

At that moment, a groan, someone in pain, is heard through the door. Patrick's green eyes go wide, and he makes a grab for the doorknob. Andy throws his arm across the door, halting Patrick's movement.

“You can't go out there!” he hisses. “We have no idea what we're dealing with!” 

“And leaving him alone on the couch is going to fix that? Move, Andy.”

“Guys,” calls Joe softly. The two men turn from each other. “Brendon's on his way over. Says there's a lot of rumors going around that he's not so sure are actually rumors.”

Patrick regains his startled look for a moment before attempting to get the door open again. “Andy, you fucker, you let me out. Even if you want to hide in here forever, someone has to let Brendon in. Doesn't sound like he's awake anyway, and it's _Pete_. He needs me.”

Andy sighs, moves from the door. “You hope it's Pete.”

Patrick spends the half hour wait cross-legged on the ground next to Pete's head. He laces his fingers through Pete's fist; endures the tight squeezing and watches the movement behind Pete's eyelids. When there's a particularly loud groan, he brushes the dark hair, stuck in clumps with blood, off Pete's forehead and hums something that might have been “What A Catch”. It has become clear that nothing they can do will wake Pete. Andy and Joe aren't sure they want to.

When Brendon arrives, he asks for the story, looks at Pete, talks quickly. He doesn't know much, says he isn't sure when or where it started, has only heard that it's as bad as it sounds. Andy and Joe discuss everything, asking questions and giving each other pointed looks. Patrick doesn't speak and never moves, just hums and touches Pete.

Finally, Brendon walks over to Patrick and sits down, back against the couch. “Patrick?” he starts, touching his knee, “Patrick, you've got to listen to me.”

Patrick looks at him. The humming stops.

“Patrick,” a heavy sigh, “I don't think... I mean, from what I've heard...” He grips Patrick's knee hard. “No one I've talked to has met one who remembers.”

“Remembers what?”

Brendon is solemn when he breathes, “anything.” There is a tangible silence in the room, punctuated only by Pete's increasing grunts and moaning. “I mean, I can't be sure because there's just not much to go on, but... Pete's gone. And if what I've heard is right, you won't be safe when he wakes up. None of you will. They have instincts, Patrick, and they're not friendly ones. Mikey's friend lost his brother, said it was like a rabid wolf. Didn't speak or anything, just kept trying to go for anyone and everyone around him.”

Patrick's face drains of all color. He squeezes Pete's hand. “No. I mean, that's not... What did they do?”  
“Patrick, please, let me take him, and forget this. Pete is dead. He is, and you have to believe that. He won't wake up until sundown, but you won't like it when he does. Wouldn't you rather remember him... you know... the way he was?”

Andy and Joe are standing behind Brendon now, watching the conversation with nervous eyes. Or maybe they're watching Pete. Patrick shakes his head. 

“I just- I don't believe that. He can't, it's- It's Pete and, I'm the one who.. there's just no- I mean it's _Pete_.” And he knows he keeps saying that, _it's Pete_ , but those two words have defined his life from pretty much the moment they met. Through everything, it's always been Pete, and as far as Patrick is concerned, it always will be. “You can't take him and... you just can't unless you take me with him.” There's a finality in his voice. Patrick is usually the most soft-spoken of the bunch, but he knows how to end conversations. And once Patrick is done, everyone is done. The only person who ever pushed that boundary was, well, Pete, and Pete was rather indisposed at the moment. 

Brendon stands with a sigh, pats Patrick's shoulder sadly, and turns to the other two. They walk to the kitchen, where Brendon whispers, “I don't know, maybe he'll just have to see it. Maybe he'll never accept it if he doesn't.”

“We can take precautions. We'll be ready to finish it. Tie him down. Make sure he can't hurt anyone,” Andy is all business now, “Give Patrick enough time to let it sink in, then end it. I mean, the poor guy is going to be a psychological mess anyway, but maybe he can accept it had to happen...?”

They make plans. Discuss options. Escape plans. Once they've agreed, and they turn to the living room once more, it's almost three o'clock and Joe offers hopefully, “Maybe you'll be wrong.”

“Yeah,” Brendon sighs, “maybe.”

Talking Patrick into tying Pete down is a long, complicated process. He screams, and yells, and argues, but finally, Patrick carefully secures the knots himself, rubbing his hands softly along Pete's body where the rope presses down. Over the afternoon, Pete's body spasms and he groans more, clearly in pain but never waking, until sometime near sunset he becomes deathly still and quiet. 

_Thank God for Brendon_ , Andy thinks, as he slowly chews the sandwich forced into his hands. Brendon hands one out to Joe and Patrick, too; insists they eat, ensures they drink water. To “keep up morale” he says. _To be ready to fight_ , he doesn't say. Patrick has three bites.

Pete is secured to one of the armchairs, head drooped sideways, arms, legs, and chest bound. Once it becomes dark outside, Joe makes Patrick move away. Everyone looks away politely when Patrick runs his fingers slowly over Pete's cheek, brushing them softly against his lips, and whispers something only he is meant to hear. _His last goodbye_ , Joe notes with reverence. He almost wants to say goodbye, too, but feels like somehow Patrick is the only one who deserves to.

The four men settle in to wait. Patrick is perched on a chair facing Pete, a few yards away, one leg up with his head resting on his knee and his arms wrapped around. Next to him, Brendon stands, one hand on Patrick's shoulder. Really, if he's honest with himself, it's Patrick he's worried about more than Pete. Behind the chair, Andy stands, clutching a splintered broom handle in his oversized pocket. They had not discussed this part with Patrick, per se; figured it would just happen when it needed to happen. Joe sat behind Pete, teetering on top of a bar stool from the kitchen, another piece of broom handle pressed subtly between his legs. Andy was first string, Joe was backup; Brendon would hold Patrick - maybe in embrace while he cried, maybe down while he fought - but one way or the other, they agreed he would need to be held.

At first they are all fidgety, rocking from one foot to the other or scratching a nose or elbow, but as the minutes tick by and the darkness outside thickens, Pete's body becomes stiller and so does everyone else. Nearly an hour after sunset, Pete's head twitches. The group gasps collectively – a small intake of breath that sounds like a crack of thunder after prolonged silence. Pete lifts his head, shoulders struggling slightly at his bindings, and shakes, causing hair to fall into his face. Conscious very suddenly, his eyes snap open.

Black. They are completely black, empty, and there is something about this that knocks the breath out of Patrick, makes it real. Pete is struggling hard now, whipping his head around as he looks across the room, and pulling hard at the rope Patrick so lovingly put in place. Joe is standing now, Patrick lowers his leg to the floor, braces alongside his thighs with palms down, leans forward slightly. 

“Pete?” It's soft, almost a note. There is no tremor, but Patrick's voice reeks of fear, and Pete's eyes snap to his. For a second, there is nothing but the sound of Patrick's heartbeat in his ears, blood pounding, and the black (so _wrong_ ) eyes of his best friend. There are no pupils, no iris, but Patrick knows they're looking right at each other. He knows like he's always known Pete. But the second is over, and Pete's mouth opens in a snarl, nose scrunching, eyebrows knitted together. There is venom in the sound, animalistic and loud. And then there are the teeth: curved, pointed incisors, just barely longer than normal, next to glinting canines, true fangs. Patrick shudders, but doesn't relent. 

“Pete,” he says, louder this time, rises from the chair and steps forward. “Pete, hey, it's me.”

But the man ( _vampire_ , Patrick makes himself think) in the chair shows no sign of recognition, only struggles harder against his bonds, snarling, hissing, and growling in rage. Brendon grabs Patrick's arm, trying to keep him from stepping closer. 

“Patrick, no.”

But Patrick pushes his hand away with a look back. “Stop. Let me try. He knows me, he has to.” And Patrick is close, too close, now, only a foot away. He drops to his knees, holding himself at eye level with the man who, twenty four hours ago, was his best friend. “Pete, come on. It's Patrick.”

Joe and Andy are looking wildly between each other and Brendon, trying to figure out when they're supposed to jump. They hadn't really planned on this proximity problem. Brendon is concentrating all his focus on Patrick kneeling inches away from death.

“Pete, _please_ ,” Patrick pleads. He lifts a hand, momentarily considering resting it on Pete's leg, but thinks better and lowers it again. Pete continues to snarl and thrash, but his coal-black eyes are focused only on Patrick now. _Connection_ , thinks Patrick. _Closest meal_ , thinks Joe. And maybe the moment could last all night, Patrick pleading and the vampire unresponsive, trying to break free, but Patrick is a singer, not a boy scout, and the knots are beginning to slip.


	2. May Nothing But Death Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening: The First Punch by Pierce the Veil

He is acutely aware of three things, and three things only.

First, he is bound. His mind is too scattered to determine how, or by what, or think much at all beyond _getfreegetoutrunfight_ and he thrashes against the restraints. Maybe they budge. He is too distracted to notice, too focused.  


The second thing he knows is that he is hungry. The burn sits low in the pit of his stomach and throbs a slow, dull rhythm into every cell of his body. If any of himself remained, it might remind him of a song. 

Finally, there is someone – no, _someones_ \- there. He can hear their heartbeats in syncopation with his own empty, needing throb. Can see the warmth in their skin, and this one is close, _so close_. This one, whose smells fills his nostrils, who is speaking to him with hot breath he can feel in the air between them. 

He jerks again, lunging for the one that is _right there_ , finds himself trapped where he is, looks for an escape, watches blood and fear rise up in the face so close he would rip it to shreds if only he could get loose, get free, watches the vein pulse in its neck, growls in rage, feels its heart race, grows aching hard in his groin and his stomach with the smell of fear.

Another spasm, pulling against his bonds. The distance between them is closed ever so slightly, although he couldn’t say, would never notice, if he were breaking free, or if this one is coming to him. _Yes, come along_ , he would say, but there are not words for those like him. There are roars and guttural noises that corral the sheep, allow the wolf to hunt. This lamb presents itself so willingly for the slaughter, why can’t he just _reach it?_

He is staring into this one’s eyes. It looks back at him, speaks again, reaches towards him, and it is too much. He has never been so desperate, so needy, and surges forward, towards green eyes and light hair and a voice filled with panic and fear that fills him up, but not the way its flesh will, and suddenly the ties snap-

His entire body is a spring, wound tight, and it uncoils, flings him into it, this one who invades his senses and makes him ache all over. He pounces like the predator his is, and there is soft flesh beneath him. He is only barely aware of the cries ringing out around him, thinks offhandedly, _oh yes, the others_ , but these green eyes go wide, brim with tears, he can taste their salt in the air, and it’s all he needs.

He is holding it down. Lowers his face close, breathes deeply, savoring the sweat and blood and fear. The noises it makes are garbled in his ears, though they might have been words, might have meant something in another life. He looks into its eyes one last time, thrill rushing through him at the thought of watching its lifelight go, feeling the body still beneath him, watches its mouth move and the sounds it makes are terrified, pleading, cries and a sob, a tear escapes out of one eye, leaks from under glasses and along a cheek blooming red with the blood he needs, just below the surface-

and something breaks. He freezes, body poised and craving, his stomach roils and an erection presses tightly against his clothes. It is crying beneath him, struggling against arms that are strong, much too strong, for it to be of any use. Something in him doesn’t want it to cry, even while everything else revels in its pain and fear. In a second that seems like years, he feels the other ones bearing down on him, sees the red-rimmed green of its eyes, hears it choke out a sob, and this time the words say “Pete, oh God, _please, Pete, don’t_ ,” and this might have meant something, might still mean something, and he sits up, ever so slightly, cocks his head in confusion, tries to make sense of it while his nails dig into its shoulders and everything in him screams for the drops of blood that pool there, when one word comes to him, whispers, _”Patrick?”_ , feels a sharp pain on the crown of his head, sees stars, then black, and hits the floor.


	3. Coming Apart at the Seams

Patrick’s vision swims, eyes and glasses blurred with tears, and he hears himself gasping for breath, feels himself choking on his own inhale. He tries to blink away the wetness, but only watches gray encroach the edges of his sight. Patrick tries to move, get free, pull his glasses off, but his arms feel weak and his body is pinned down – this sudden realization only worsens the way he tries to gulp down air. He feels the fatigue in his limbs creep up his body into his head, feels strong arms grab him, his body is freed, someone is holding him, he can hear someone hyperventilating ( _himself?_ ) and he loses consciousness.

Patrick rouses in someone’s arms. He is greeted with a headache, a sharp percussive tempo beating behind his eyes, a haze of panic that causes his chest to tighten, and an argument occurring over his head. When he shifts slightly and opens his eyes, Brendon’s blurry face looks down at him and the agitated words cut off suddenly. He squints, blinks, tries to clear his sight, and Brendon says, “Hey, here, do you want your glasses?” and hands the square black frames over. Patrick awkwardly puts them on with the arm not pinned against Brendon’s chest. He tries to sit up, but is met with resistance.

“No, hey, Patrick, take it slow, okay? You passed out, let’s get you some…uh… Joe!” he looks behind him, “Joe, grab him a glass of water, yeah?” Patrick lets his head fall back and hears what he assumes is Joe making his way to the kitchen. The suffocating feeling he remembers is gone, but the general sense of fear still sits angrily in his chest, refusing to budge. He tries to put a name to it, a cause, and suddenly recalls dark eyes and a low growl and sits up fast with eyes wide.

Brendon was right, and Patrick’s head swims again, already off balance, but this time it clears, and Brendon has him, says, “Woah, hold on. It’s okay, Patrick, just… it’s okay…” A cup full of water, one of those plastic ones with someone’s logo on it, is pressed into his hand, and Joe is helping him get it to his lips. He gulps it down, a little cold, but welcome, and feels Joe’s other hand pat his shoulder. 

“Better?” Joe asks.

Patrick nods, pulls the cup away. Joe places it on the ground nearby. Patrick straightens his back, righting himself fully, and slides off Brendan’s lap to the carpet. He looks around slowly, notices the toppled chair, failed rope, finally sees Andy off to the side, standing in a moody hunch with his arms crossed and back pressed against the wall near the closed bedroom door. Despite the severe lines of his face and stance, Andy’s eyes look back at Patrick with something soft behind them. _Sympathy?_ he wonders. 

“What… what happened… to…” The name catches in Patrick’s throat, feels like it doesn’t quite fit, and he swallows around it, as though he can lubricate the word and help it along. But he doesn’t really need to; Andy speaks up from his post on the wall.

“Well, when he got loose and jumped at you-“ Patrick flinches involuntarily, “-Joe knocked him out, and Brendon was trying to get you out from under him but you passed out, and then I wanted to…” his voice trails off, and he shifts his gaze to Brendon. “Um… well, finish it, I guess. But-“

“But I was worried about you,” Brendon cuts across Andy. “I said we should make sure you were okay first. I mean, it wasn’t immediately clear if he’d hurt you or not, so Andy and Joe moved him in there.” He nods to the closed bedroom door. “We were trying to figure out what to do next when you woke up. You were only out for…I don’t know, what?”

Joe shrugs. “Five, eight minutes, max,” he offers. Nods of agreement. Patrick doesn’t particularly care. The only thing he can do now is stare at the door. 

Patrick keeps looking at it when he says softly, “So, what are we going to do now?”

But before anyone can even open their mouth to reply, a crash echoes out of the room. Some piece of furniture has been knocked over, and they hear the wood crack. A snarl follows. There is a collective spasm, and Andy jumps off the wall, spinning to face the door.

“Well _fuck_ ,” Andy moans. “Looks like that particular window of opportunity has passed.”

Brendon pushes himself to his feet. “We’ll just have to wait it out. We knew this could happen. We’ll take turns watching the door, but he’s weak, he hasn’t eaten, and I doubt he’ll do much more than knock the dresser over. At sunrise, he’ll go to sleep, and we can go from there.”

Patrick makes a motion to stand, too, but Joe presses down firmly on his shoulder. “I think you should get some sleep, if you can. Leave this to us.” His voice is kind, and while Patrick doubts very much that he can sleep, he also doubts his ability to be of any use if anything were to actually occur. Andy nods, and Brendon adds, “Joe, do you want to help him to the guest room? I’ll stay here with Andy.”

Joe braces Patrick’s elbow with one arm, wrapping the other around his back and shoulder. “Let’s get you some rest,” he smiles sadly. Turns out, Patrick definitely needs the help, sags a little under his own weight, but they move him slowly into the guest room down the hall, and he manages to strip to his boxers and get under the covers. Joe brings him a glass of water and places it on the bedside table next to Patrick’s glasses. “I, uh,” Joe starts, heading back into the hallway, “I guess we’ll be out here if you need anything. Try to sleep, okay?”

“Yeah.” But the weariness in his voice says more about how little he thinks he can sleep than how much he desperately needs to.

In the dark, Patrick curls around a pillow, trying not to listen to the distant thuds and noises that sound exactly like a caged animal, and not at all like his best friend. He feels like perhaps he could cry more, but he’s shed an immense number of tears over the last 24 hours, and maybe his body is out of them because none come. Instead, he shudders and sings quietly to himself.

When he finally does sleep, it’s in small bursts - ten minutes, fifteen, half an hour – and each time, he has the same dream.

 _They are up on stage. He can’t see the crowd through the blinding spotlights, but_ God _can he hear them. They’re screaming and singing along with him, and every cell in his body is on fire, adrenaline exploding inside him, one hand on the neck of his guitar, one gripping the mic stand. It’s the end of the show, and he sings Saturday with all his heart, falling into the comfort coming back to it always brings. They are_ on _._

 _A familiar presence pushes into his space, presses up against him. It’s been years since he even turned his head to check, because it’s always the same. Their moment, their words, their song. Patrick breathes it in and belts through his next line while the audience just_ screams _with approval. This is what he lives for. Just like always, the sweat-drenched head pushes against his neck, sticky-wet hair all over his ear and jaw, and there is hot breath on his skin. But this time, there is an unexpected sound, a low rumble, something between a growl and a purr, and the words he is used to hearing whispered sound wrong, like a lisp, like a tongue catching on sharp teeth, and his neck explodes in pain while the fan’s screams become those of horror-_

He wakes up drenched in sweat, heart racing, and drifts back off to feral noises in the distance.


	4. I'll Spin For You (Like Your Favorite Record Used To)

It’s still dark outside when Patrick knows he is awake for good. He can’t stand the thought of another nightmare, the _same_ nightmare, and sits up in bed, reaching for his glasses. When the world comes into focus, the light coming in from the hallway illuminates a small pile of folded clothing someone has left for him, and Patrick gratefully pulls on one of Joe’s old band t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants. He picks up the glass of water from the bedside table and shuffles out quietly towards the living room. 

There is an odd silence in the apartment, something subdued but not peaceful, and Patrick takes a large sip of water as he rounds the corner. Andy and Brendon are asleep on the couch, heads on opposite ends with their legs tangled in an awkward mess at the center. They look wildly uncomfortable, managing to sleep like this only through years of training in the backs of old vans and shitty tour bus bunks. In the corner of the room, Joe has scooted a chair close to the television and is watching Twilight Zone reruns at an almost inaudible volume. Patrick makes his way over to him, squinting a little against the bright light from the TV, and whispers, “Hey.”

Joe jumps, startled. “Oh _shit_ , man,” he whispers back, “you scared me.” 

“Sorry. Hey, thanks for the clothes,” Patrick says, tugging slightly at the shirt. 

“Of course.” He smiles, “Get some sleep? How are you feeling?”

Patrick just shrugs and looks at the carpet. “Yeah, I got a little. Just kept… waking up.” He glances around the room, eyes flicking to the bedroom door repeatedly, and asks, “So, it looks like everything’s quieted down out here?”

Joe nods, turns back to the TV for a moment. “Yeah, he, uh… He kinda pounded around for a couple hours, made it hard for us to take turns, really - too loud - but around like two or three I think he just got tired. Brendon says it’s because he hasn’t eaten. Says he’s most likely still awake, just gave up fighting. So I volunteered to stay up just in case until sunrise. Only a couple more hours to go, anyway, and it’s never a bad time for Rod Serling.” He grins a little at Patrick, who manages a sad half-smile in reply. “Care to join?”

Patrick considers a comment about how his real life is a little too Twilight Zone at the moment to be particularly interested in a fictional one, but decides against it. He just shakes his head instead, with a “No thanks,” and turns back towards the kitchen with the off-handed thought that maybe he should eat something.

“Well, you know where to find me.” Joe turns back to the black and white show before him, settling down into his chair and clicking up the volume one notch.

Patrick slows as he walks past the bedroom door, turns to look at it, wonders what scene lays on the other side. Is he awake, like Joe said? Laying on the ground, too weak to move, starving for a meal he can’t have? Or, like a captured animal, has he just given up, waiting for a new opportunity to attempt escape? Patrick wants desperately to open the door – to throw it wide, and see Pete, _his Pete_ , grinning his _oh, there you are, Patrick, I was waiting for you_ grin. He feels, suddenly, like he spent too much time annoyed by Pete, and not nearly enough time memorizing him. And maybe Brendon was right – maybe he would rather have never let this new Pete into his head. Maybe this was a terrible decision. Because everything in Patrick wanted to believe that nothing could change the one thing he knew beyond a doubt, but here was all the evidence to the contrary. And yet… 

Patrick turns to check that Joe is still engrossed in his show, then takes careful, quiet steps up to the door. He’s just shy of dumb enough to actually unlock the thing, instead pressing his side against it and sinking to the floor. Is there any Pete left in the man on the other side of the door? _Where is your boy tonight?_ he wonders to himself with an irony-laden huff. Patrick leans his head against the door, curling his arms around his knees, and feels the all-too-familiar sting of tears push against the corners of his eyes. He closes his eyes, hoping this will keep them at bay, but hears soft, nearly-silent weeping instead. Patrick reaches up to wipe the tears away, to collect himself, but is surprised when his face is dry. His eyes go wide for a moment, and he presses his head harder to the door, squashing the frame of his glasses into the soft spot behind his ear.

It’s Pete. He must be close to the door as well, maybe even pressed against it like Patrick is, because the whimpering is so hushed as to be almost imperceptible. Patrick is trying to wrap his mind (which is oscillating violently between _yes, Pete, I knew it_ and the fresh memory of black eyes and hot breath) around what this could even mean, could even signify, when he realizes that he’s not just hearing meaningless noises.

It’s punctuated with soft, sharp inhales, tiny, discreet throat noises, and light sniffling, but Pete is whispering. Patrick strains to hear, breath caught in his throat, _needs_ to understand, and he hears the vampire whisper _PatrickPatrickPatrick_ , like it’s the only word he knows.


	5. Dear Gravity

Patrick presses a hand to the cold wood and stares, unable to believe what he is hearing. He rolls to his knees, facing the door, whispers, “Pete?”

The mumbling stops, accompanied by a shuddering inhale and long sniff.

“Pete? Pete?” Patrick rises up on his knees, voice growing louder and stronger with each repetition. He presses both hands flat to the door. “Pete!”

He hears movement on the other side, another carefully controlled breath. “P-Patrick?” 

Joe turns from the television and jumps up from his seat, seeing Patrick.

Patrick pounds a hand against the door. He is almost yelling now, and his cries are rousing the two men sleeping on the couch. “Pete! Pete, I’m here!”

“Patrick, I-“ Pete’s voice is cut off with another inhale, a sniff, “What’s going on? I… w-what’s… what’s happening?” He can hear Pete crying now, and Patrick is reaching for the doorknob when Joe comes up behind him, wraps his arms around his torso, and drags him back. Brendon is sitting up on the couch, blinking in a confused stupor. 

“Let me go!” Patrick struggles against Joe, thrashing. “Pete!” And there is enough noise now, Brendon is wide awake, leaping from the couch to help Joe, Andy close behind him. The three men are holding Patrick down, who fights against them, yelling all the while. “Pete! Pete, I – fucking let me _go!_ Let go of me… _Pete!_ ”

Pete’s sobs are loud now, punctuated with tearful words, “Patrick, I don’t… I don’t understand… Are you okay? What’s going on? I… I feel… Patrick I think… I think there’s something wrong with me!” 

Joe and Brendon are trying desperately to keep Patrick still, away from the door. Brendon whispers _shh, Patrick, calm down, Patrick please_ , but he continues to fight. Andy scoots towards the bedroom.

“Pete?” he tries.

There is a pause, Patrick growling _fuck you, get off of me_ the only noise, and then, “Andy?”

Andy sighs with something that might be relief, and says “Yes, Pete, it’s me-“

“Andy, what’s going on? What’s wrong with Patrick? What’s wrong with _me?_ ” His voice is panicked. “I think I’m having hallucinations or… I don’t know, some kind of nightmare, or…”

“Fucking let him out!” Patrick howls, “Pete-“

“Is Patrick okay?” Pete cries. “Patrick, what’s going on? Andy, Patrick, please, someone-“

“Patrick’s fine.” Andy says, as calmly as he can manage. “Brendon and Joe are here, they’re holding him. He’s just fine.”

“J-Joe? Guys, why am I… what-“

“Listen, Pete,” Andy is right next to the door now, “Pete, what do you remember?”

Pete is gasping, edging on hyperventilation. “I- I mean, there’s this weird… uh… dream I guess. Or, I thought it was a dream, and I kinda woke up in here, in… is this Joe’s bedroom? Except I don’t really remember actually _waking up_ and… Fuck, I… everything fucking hurts, Andy, my head is on fire, and I feel so…” there’s a long moment of silence. Patrick has stopped yelling, enraptured listening to Pete, though he still yanks against his friends distractedly.

Andy pushes, “Pete?” 

“Hungry.” Pete finishes. “Like… like, I haven’t eaten in days, and everything smells weird, and it feels like that fucking dream…” He coughs a little, chokes down a large breath.

“Do you remember anything about the dream, Pete? Patrick, _stop it_ ,” he turns to the three struggling men behind him.

A large sniff comes from the bedroom. “I… I remember…” his voice trails off, maybe from struggling to grasp memories that have faded, or perhaps out of fear that speaking them would make it real. “I… I woke up and everything was… I was so… and then Patrick was…” He gasps, chokes again, “Oh fucking God, _Patrick_ , did I hurt Patrick? _Did I hurt him?_ ” Pete wails.

“Pete, I’m okay, let him _out_!” Patrick cries, struggling anew.

“Pete, listen to me," Andy begins, “you’re not okay, man. We've got to keep you in there for a bit,” and he intends to continue, but Pete is pounding his fists against the door, gasping, “Oh, God, Patrick, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorryI’msorryPatrickPatrickPatrick…”

It takes the better part of an hour to calm both men, Andy talking Pete down through door while Joe and Brendon beg _please, Patrick, please you’re not helping_. Eventually, though, Patrick sits quietly, defeated, throwing disgruntled looks at Brendon who is watching him like a prison warden, and Pete goes shock-silent while Andy attempts to delicately fill him in (kindly leaving out some of the hairier details of the attacks – both Pete’s and Patrick’s). 

“It’s almost morning,” Joe notes softly, nodding towards a tinge of dusty grey light peeking at the window. Andy pauses, turns as if to verify the hour himself, and says, “Pete, you gotta get some sleep now, okay man?”

The apartment is silent, a garbage truck rumbling past outside breaking through, and Pete breathes angrily, “Then what, huh?” A dull thud sounds like his forehead hitting the wall. “What, I fucking… fucking _do this?_ What is this, anyway? I live in Joe’s fucking bedroom? Until… until I starve? Until I up and fucking die from not… from not what? Eating people? Can I even fucking die? Or do I just lay on this shitty fucking carpet in the dark forever?”

“Hey man, that’s great carpet,” Joe tries. It’s meant to be humorous, but no one laughs.

“Fuck you,” Pete spits. “And fuck this.” Rustling, like he’s standing up, moving away from the door.

Patrick looks pained. “ _Pete._ ”

The silence he receives in response is almost more disheartening than everything else. The only indication that Pete is still listening is a hard exhale, and then there’s the bounce of a mattress on the other side of the room. 

Patrick starts to speak again, but Joe puts a hand on his chest. “I think we just need to leave him alone, Patrick.” Joe moves his hand around his friend’s shoulders, and welcomes the body as he leans in. 

Andy stands slowly, stiffly, groans a bit from the soreness caused by his precarious couch-sleep earlier. He looks briefly at Patrick, seems satisfied that the singer isn’t about to break down the door or try to spring the vampire free, and drags himself towards the kitchen. Brendon rubs Patrick’s back softly, manages half of an encouraging smile, and follows suit. 

Joe sits with Patrick while the sun rises fully, Joe watching Patrick’s face, and Patrick staring at the doorknob wistfully. Once the apartment has lit up to an obnoxiously cheery morning color, Patrick tears his eyes away and looks at Joe, silently asking permission. Joe shrugs, _if you must_ , is the noiseless reply, communicating comfortably the way old friends can. And maybe he should get Andy, or Brendon, but there’s a softness to the air in the apartment that wasn’t there before, and he knows it’s okay. 

Patrick unlocks the door, pushes it open just enough to go through, and walks inside the dark bedroom. The curtains have been drawn, so only thin stripes of sun make it through the gaps and edges. Pete is asleep ( _do vampires actually sleep?_ Patrick wonders) on top of the disheveled bed, still as a corpse. Experience tells him he can’t be woken, not until the night returns.

Joe watches through the gap with sad eyes while Patrick crawls under the covers on the other side of the bed, says a mental prayer to every god he’s ever heard of, and pulls the door shut.


	6. Just Young Enough to Still Believe

When Joe finally slides onto a barstool in the kitchen, Brendon is sitting at the other end of the counter eating his way through a box of Honey Nut Cheerios while Andy rinses the plate he was using. Joe lets his forehead hit the granite, slouches his shoulders and rolls his head to the side, watching Brendon’s slow, purposeful chewing. He feels exhausted in ways he figures are equal parts emotional and physical, but despite the newfound calm there’s a level of moroseness he can’t dispel that he is sure will keep him awake. 

Andy sets the plate in the dish rack and turns, leaning on his forearms across the island towards Joe. “Where’s Patrick?” he asks, solemn like he already knows the answer. Joe rests his chin on the counter and meets Andy’s gaze in reply. “Ah. Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“No, I don’t,” Joe begins, but it’s hard to speak with his chin down, makes his head feel heavy, and he straightens up and leans forward on his elbows, mirroring Andy. “But I mean, it is a bad idea either? I just- it’s not like we can just Google “what to do when your bassist is suddenly a vampire”, right? We’re all winging this, and what we need now is time to figure shit out. Which. Well, I guess that’s what this is. Time.”

Andy doesn’t seem to have a reply to this, and the sound of Brendon crunching away is like thunder in the silence. Joe can’t stand the noise, so he talks over it. “But really, what do we even do now? I mean, we can hardly stake him – Brendon, I thought you said they’re never the same after…?”

Brendon swallows. “They’re _not_.” He shovels one more spoonful of cereal and talks thickly between chews. “At least, none of the ones I’ve heard of, not that I’m an expert or anything. But I really- I really don’t know why Pete’s different. Or,” he sets his spoon down, “how long he’ll stay that way. Who really knows? Maybe he’s good, fine, Pete, whatever, or maybe he wakes up tonight just like he did last night. Maybe he wakes up like that every night, and maybe he comes to later, or maybe that part goes away. Maybe one day there really isn’t any Pete left. There’s really no precedent for this, like you said, it’s not like we can Google it.” The exhaustion in Joe’s head is heavy in Brendon’s speech. _At least we’re dealing with this together_ , Joe thinks.

Andy drops his head into his hands. “ _Fuuuuck_ ,” he moans. 

Joe sighs. “My sentiments exactly.”

Breakfast is followed by short, fitful naps, and the men awake to Patrick sliding out of the bedroom just past noon. His face is set in the same optimistic, determined expression that they’ve seen a thousand times in the recording studio when the chords aren’t _quite_ right but Patrick insists that _they’ll get there, guys, come on_. Joe doesn’t like this expression, since it usually results in his being forced to rework a minor G7 until his fingers bleed, and that’s on a good day. Today is most definitely not a good day, and he is immediately distrustful.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Patrick announces matter-of-factly, like their bassist scraped his knee instead of morphing into a supernatural killing machine. “I mean, of course, we’ll have to figure out what he can eat - wasn’t there that movie where they eat raw steaks? – and we might need to adjust our sleep schedules, but hey we usually play at night anyway, so it’s just a matter of getting used to it, and –”

“Patrick, now hang on,” Brendon yawns, blinking a bit, “We don’t know that. I’ll admit this is more promising than we’d hoped, but what if he wakes up again tonight just like he did last night? We can’t be hitting him over the head every evening.”

Patrick seems undeterred and replies calmly as he walks to the kitchen and begins preparing a bowl of microwave soup. “He won’t. You saw him, he just needed a memory jog; he’s just fine.”

Andy sighs and Joe can’t help but agree with his unspoken exasperation. Most of the time, the complicated relationship between Pete and Patrick ranges from sweet to confusing, but right now it’s nothing but inconvenient. “Patrick, man,” Andy starts, using his Calm And In Charge VoiceTM that is usually reserved for Manic Pete. “Listen, if you can’t take a step back from this – and I _know_ how hard that’s got to be for you, I really do – but seriously, if you can’t stand here and have a reasonable and rational conversation with us about this, you’re getting voted off the island. There’s a chance this will work, you don’t have to convince us of that-“

“Yeah, we all talked to him, Trick,” Joe pipes in.

“We did. We talked to him, we heard him. But we also watched him snap those ropes like they were nothing, and we’re not about to risk you, or _any_ of us, on a poorly conceived plan.” Andy attempts to make eye contact with the singer, who in turn is staring intensely at the microwave as it counts down. Patrick pops the door with three seconds to go and is forced to face his friends when he turns to set the bowl on the kitchen island. The confident look is gone, replaced with a sort of reluctant and uncooperative acceptance. He glances from his soup, to the ceiling, to the edge of the counter, before he finally meets eyes with Andy. 

“Yeah, fine, we can talk about it.” There’s a perceptible sigh of relief from the others. “But you’ve got to listen to me, too. I was right, and you know it. I know Pete. And he may be different, but he’s not dangerous. Not to me.” 

Joe contains an eye roll and says, “We’re just asking you to be willing to take precautions. That’s all.”

Patrick grunts in agreement and starts in on his soup. Brendon eyes it, displeased with the way the Campbell’s Tomato sits thick and red and warm in the bowl. _The next time I’m alone in this kitchen,_ he decides, _I’m throwing every last one of those out._


	7. You Look So Good In Blue

The afternoon feels disjointed, and a little tense. Aside from the carefully managed disagreements about what to do next and how to go about doing it, there’s a thickness in the air that settles deeper every hour and makes their skin prickle. In the end, Joe and Patrick are dispatched to collect supplies – raw meat, fresh garlic, sterling chains, and _some big ass locks_ , as Brendon so tenderly calls them. At the grocery store, Joe watches as Patrick carefully inspects each shrink-wrapped package of ground beef, lamb chops, pork loin, and filet. He isn’t completely sure what Patrick is looking for, but it takes multiple passes across the meat case and the better part of fifteen minutes to make his selections. He’s less enthusiastic about the other items.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Brendon and Andy are doing research. They start with phone calls, reaching out to everyone and anyone that might know something, careful not to share too much information in return. 

“The last thing we want,” Andy says, “Is anyone else knowing about Pete. Or worse, that he’s…. like he is.” Brendon nods in agreement, will keep it under wraps.

The phone calls turn up little, as does the first hour of pop culture research and Googling. They take detailed notes anyway, hoping that some small thing will be the key. The bright living room has faded to afternoon gold when Brendon, who has been typing furiously on his phone, whacks Andy across the shoulder. 

“Hey!” Another whack, and Andy turns around slightly. “Look at this, dude.” Brendon shoves his phone into Andy’s hands, and Andy marvels at Brendon’s ability to read such small text for so long. It’s a subreddit, r/fanggfans, with only fourteen posts between three users. “It’s mostly crap,” Brendon says, “but look at this one.” He points to the third post from the bottom, and Andy zooms in to read it.

**yeah, theyre cool but dangerous af. gotta get em on a special diet so they calm down a bit lol. friend of mine said he kniows aguy keeping one as a pet the sick bastard.**

Andy seems unimpressed, but Brendon is practically giddy. “Do you think this could work?” He asks excitedly.

Andy shrugs, hands the phone back. “I mean, what even did we learn? Some twerp kid on Reddit – who, by the way, is most likely talking about fake vampires with his fake friends, not real ones – claims some other twerp kid has a pet vampire who eats a special diet? Even if it’s true, a diet of what? Strawberries? I mean, good eye, Brendon, but we need to keep looking. Though, to be honest, the more I look the more I’m confident we’re just gonna have to make this up as we go.”

Brendon deflates a little. “Yeah, okay. Let’s keep going.” And with that, the two men descend back into silence. 

It’s not long after that Patrick and Joe return, carrying bags and bags of supplies. Andy and Patrick set about laying everything out, separating chains by size and length. “In case anyone was wondering,” Joe offers, “it is fucking difficult to find silver chains in any meaningful size.” Brendon’s shoulders rise and fall briefly, like maybe he chuckled to himself, as he gathers the garlic and begins opening each clove, releasing the pungent smell into the air.

After a solemn, early dinner, the bedroom door is opened again, and each of them enters, observing Pete lying in complete stillness on the bed. They’ve agreed, not without animosity, that Patrick is not allowed to bind him this time, ( _ **He would have broken them anyway, he’s strong** , Patrick argued, to no avail._) so Brendon and Joe lift Pete from the bed and move him to a seated position on the floor in the corner, where the industrial-style apartment features exposed plumbing pipes. Andy follows closely with the new chains and locks in hand, and when Pete is propped awkwardly against the largest pipe, he begins to wrap the chains carefully around his torso and the hard copper behind him, strapping him in as though for a roller coaster. As Patrick watches the process, ready to jump in or comment if he feels the restraints are too tight, he notices what looks like a tiny smoke trail rising from Pete’s ankle, where the end of a piece of chain touches him.

Patrick lets out a cry and drops forward to his knees, pulling the chain away from the exposed skin. Spongy, red flesh greets him, shining with sweat and macrophage. Startled, Andy jerks back, causing the end of the chain he’s holding to whip against Pete’s upper arm, leaving an identical welt behind in a second. 

Patrick’s voice is strained. “Andy, we can’t do this, can’t you see it’s hurting him?” 

For once, Andy pauses in consideration, and it’s Joe who replies. “It’s just where it’s on his skin, Patrick, and we need that precaution. Here, I’ll go grab some washcloths for his wrists, but it just means that as long as he’s in control, he’ll be okay, and so will we.” He reaches out and rubs Patrick lightly on the back. “Okay? You agreed.” 

Patrick looks forlorn, but cedes nonetheless. He spends the rest of the process faithfully making sure that ends and edges of chain don’t touch Pete. 

When the sun finally droops behind the horizon, the scene looks almost exactly as it did the night before, though they feel both more and less prepared this time. Brendon sits on the bed, holding more silver and a fistful of peeled garlic. He’s crushing it a little, fist clenched with stress and anticipation, and the oils make the tips of his fingers sticky. Joe sits with Patrick, cross-legged on the floor in front of Pete, but not as close this time. Patrick refused the garlic, and Joe refused to let him hold a raw steak, so the meat sits on a plate on the floor in front of the vampire. Andy is leaning against the wall, keenly aware of the bowl of garlic that rests on the dresser behind him, but hopeful he won’t need it.

The blanket of silence and heavy air falls around them, until once again, he wakes. Pete lifts his drooping head, shaking it a little, and tilts heavily to the right where it cracks with stiffness. His shoulders shake, and his lips part slightly, the elongated teeth glinting in the hall light a mere second before black eyes open. 

Patrick hesitates this time, perhaps filled with memories from his last attempt, and Andy uncrosses his arms, tries, “Uh… Pete?”

The vampire inhales deeply, eyes closing in pleasure as he does, and then jerks forward, catching the chains. The realization that he is restrained seems to cause panic – or anger – and he begins to thrash against them, growling. Unlike the ropes, he struggles with his metal bindings, and as he fights the towel placed carefully to protect his left wrist slips, leaving the chains looser and the skin exposed. Smoke rises immediately, wounds forming as the chain presses against his wrist, his hand, his forearm, and he hisses, whining towards the ceiling and tries to pull away. 

Patrick makes a small movement forward, planning to try to help, but even through the pain the vampire lunges and snaps, flashing fangs. He falls back into Joe, as his counterpart falls back into his prison, alternately whimpering and roaring. Patrick covers his face. “I can’t watch this,” he sobs, and Brendon stands.

“Should we just wait, then? Patrick we can leave him here and get you in the living room, come on.” He and Joe help Patrick out, and Andy follows behind them, commenting, “Yeah, he’s well restrained. There’s nothing else we can do now.”

This time they leave the door open.


	8. Detox Just To Retox

It’s faster this time, maybe an hour, and Patrick notices the moment it happens. There’s something about the screams - previously angry and guttural, one breaks through full of fear and pain; the cry of a man, not a monster. In seconds, Patrick is standing at the open door, the others stumbling over themselves to catch up behind him.

Pete tugs half-heartedly on his left arm, crying in pain. The flesh is missing in chunks up his arm, wet and raw, the air clouded with the smell of burned skin. 

“Oh, _Pete_ ,” Patrick breathes, and lurches forward. His arm is caught by Joe, who steps up to his side and whispers, “Hold on.”

Pete lifts his head, looking at them crowded in the door frame. There are tears running down his face, and his soft brown eyes are rimmed with red. He breathes heavily, ivory fangs the only remnant of the vampire. “ _Please_ ,” he chokes, the word breaking in the middle, the end distorted by teeth that his tongue is unfamiliar with. Andy scoots around Patrick and Joe, advancing slowly. 

“Pete? I’m gonna try to help you, okay? I need you to stay very, _very_ still.” Pete grimaces and nods, cries turning to muffled whimpers. Andy crouches, moving forward carefully. Behind him, Patrick strains slightly against Joe’s grasp, but doesn’t fight.

Andy recovers the fallen towel laying on the ground and closes the last few feet with his arms outstretched, reaching towards the charred flesh. “Hang on, Pete,” he murmurs. “Just hang on, and _don’t move_.” Andy angles himself to the left, clearly avoiding head on proximity, and reaches out, laying the towel gently on his forearm. Pete winces, jerking slightly and causing a new wound to appear on his hand. “Shh, _shhh_ ,” Andy tries. 

Pete inhales sharply as Andy begins to wrap the towel down his arm, and his eyes go wide, filling in like an ink drop in water. He gasps slightly, holding his breath and blinking furiously, turning away. Andy is focused enough on the wounded limb that he doesn’t seem to notice, and Brendon whispers furiously, “ _Andy!_ ”

He turns back, seeing their startled faces, and looks over to Pete, who has his eyes and mouth held tightly shut. His hands move quickly, and he consoles Pete as he speeds up, “Hang in there, hang on, Pete, just stay with me, almost done.” Andy tucks the end of the towel under the final inch of chain and scoots back quickly as Pete exhales hard. His eyes are blacked out again, and he jerks ever so slightly forward as Andy pulls away, but for once, the vampire seems calm. As his breathing returns to normal, one exhale sounds like a lispy _Thanks_ , and slowly, the darkness recedes into his pupils again. A moment later, the fangs melt away too, leaving Pete, just Pete, huddled in the corner.

Twenty minutes later, the five friends are seated in a circle on Joe’s floor, and it almost feels like old times, except for the noticeable space between Pete and everyone else. That, of course, and the clanking the chains make when he shifts at all. 

“So, I mean, is there… _anything_? Anything at all, Pete, that helps?” Brendon questions. 

Pete shakes his head somberly. “I just don’t know. It’s um… it’s hazy, you know? It feels kinda like waking up after a hard night out, like.. like I’m not sure if what I remember happened, or if I even remember everything.” He barks out a small laugh, “Even the headache is the same. It’s _killing_ me. But no, I mean I’d usually fix a hangover with a couple grilled cheese and some hair of the dog, but I… Well, clearly I don’t expect that to work.”

“But Pete,” Patrick starts, “Clearly you’re getting better. You’re doing great, really, I mean just look - we’re all here, talking, I’m sure we could even take those fucking chains off you…” Patrick leans forward, reaching for Pete, but Pete snaps at him. 

“Back the _fuck_ up, Patrick.” There’s a venom in his voice that Patrick isn’t used to, but he’s not sure if that’s because it never existed before or because he’d never been in a position to hear it. Startled, and hurt, he sits down, backing up even further. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters with a touch of sarcasm, “It’s just we’re all acting so ridiculous, when clearly-”

“Clearly,” Pete’s voice is strong and angry now, “you have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. None of you do. You’re all fucking _sitting here_ , chatting about how _great_ this is and how _well I’m doing_ , and this whole fucking time, do you get- do you even _know?_ \- I’m counting your _heartbeats. Every. Fucking. One._ You want to talk about what helps?” He scrunches his face in disgust, half snarl, half grimace. “Nothing fucking _helps _when all I can do is watch the vein in your necks and try my damndest not to imagine what I could do if that door was locked and I managed to break these chains!” His arms shake, rattling the silver with emphasis. “I’m not doing great, I’m barely holding it together!”__

__This seems to stun Patrick into complete silence, and it does not escape notice that everyone inches back in the least obvious way they can._ _

__Pete sighs, “You just… you just don’t get it. How could you?”_ _

__Joe inhales, as if to gather his courage, and says calmly, “Well, that may be true, but we’re going to try to help you anyway. It may take a while, but we’ll figure this out, alright?”_ _

__“Yes, absolutely,” Andy agrees. “We’re going to do everything we can.”_ _

__Brendon attempts a smile. “In the meantime, maybe try out that steak? I’m told Patrick picked it out special, and maybe it’ll help?”_ _

__“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Pete scoffs. Patrick stands abruptly and walks out, turning down the hall and out of sight. Brendon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll go check on him,” he offers, and heads after him out the door._ _

__“He won’t even _fucking_ try!” Patrick barks as Brendon rounds the corner into the guest room. “You know, even like this he’s the same fucking Pete, so full of self pity and fucking _refuses_ to admit anyone else might have any good ideas at all. _Shit!_ I just… argghhh!” _ _

__Brendon is almost relieved. This really does feel like old times. “You know, he might actually be right this time.” He receives a glare from Patrick in response. “Yeah, be pissed, whatever, but seriously, this is a little different than him refusing to try the new sushi restaurant.” Brendon advances on Patrick and sets his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sure that really, he’s just as scared as we are. Maybe more. Give him some time. And tell him what a shitbag he is later, once we’ve figured this out.”_ _

__Patrick doesn’t smile, but he brushes Brendon’s hand off with “Don’t think I won’t,” and Brendon knows it’s okay._ _

__Patrick’s ability to remain angry with Pete is legendary, and he manages it well tonight. He decides he will be more helpful doing research, and sets himself up on Joe’s laptop on the couch. Andy and Joe come out briefly to check on everyone and shake their heads as Brendon explains. “Well at least that’s exactly the same,” Andy muses, rolling his eyes._ _

__The rest of the night passes quietly, Patrick typing furiously while the other three try to talk to Pete. He eventually tries the sirloin, asserting that while it doesn’t taste terrible, it certainly isn’t doing anything to help the growing emptiness in his stomach. No one mentions how scared they feel watching his teeth reform as he rips into it, opting instead to insist he get comfortable for a good day’s sleep._ _


	9. My Own Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, sorry. Longer one next time to make up for it!

The next morning, Brendon leaves the group with a promise to keep his eyes and ears open and to come back soon, and they settle into a daily rhythm that feels all at once familiar and shockingly foreign. 

Patrick takes the first few hours every morning to tend to Pete’s wounds, which mark his body in stripes across the black inked there years before. Patrick finds it comforting to see the tattoos, still bright as ever, especially as he notices some of Pete’s age old scars have vanished. His new body may be adept at healing, but it’s still no match for modern ink, it seems. While Pete sleeps, Patrick unchains him, moves him to the bed. There, he carefully peels old bandages, dislodged protective towels, and Pete’s shirt off the sticky lesions. Each is cleaned, massaged with ointment, and wrapped tight with new dressings. Patrick appreciates that Andy and Joe leave him alone while he tends to Pete so that no one is watching if his calloused hands linger. 

Later, they sleep, then spend the afternoons doing research, gathering supplies, and preparing new meals for Pete to try. While he managed to digest the steak, he spent the first half of the following night completely rabid, and it was generally agreed upon that he needed something else to keep sane. As it turns out, the right butcher will sell partially coagulated pig’s blood, so after a few other failed attempts at less off-putting options, Joe’s fridge holds gallon jugs of thick, red-black liquid. 

The first night they bring in the blood for Pete, it’s well past 3 AM when the thrashing stops and his head clears. Patrick and Andy are seated on the bed, waiting for Joe to get a glass ( _”Do we put a straw in it, or…?”_ ), and Pete can smell it the second Joe uncaps the container in the kitchen. His vision swims, just for a moment, and he shakes himself, trying to keep his focus. Pete feels his pupils blow as his breathing deepens; he doesn’t need the oxygen, but he wants the scent in every cell of his body. When Joe appears in the doorway, he’s holding a large plastic cup with a straw and Pete is straining forward against the chains, every ounce of energy focused on the contents of the cup and on repeating their names in his head. He finds it helps him stay _him_ , helps him keep the animal in check. _Andy. Patrick. Joe… Andy. Patrick. Joe… Andy. Patrick. Joe…_ But the pressure on the inside of his lips tell him his fangs have grown in, and it’s matched with an ache low in his gut and groin. He’s not sure he wants to open his mouth, worries what noises will escape, what his friends will see, and luckily the eternity he’s waiting is over - Joe’s pressed the cup carefully into Pete’s left hand and backed away. 

He doesn’t have much range of motion in the chains, but it’s enough to get the straw to his mouth. All at once, there is nothing else. The three men, the room, even the chains, all swirl out of consciousness. He is a man lost for days in the desert, and he is gulping down the water he needs. The flavor is all wrong, the same way canned green beans can’t compare to fresh; there’s something sharp in it, overwhelmingly metallic, but at long last, for the first time since that night, he feels sated. He finishes the first cup easily, and Joe brings him five more before the monstrous features melt away and Pete is finally, finally slumped in a moment of respite. 

From that night on, it’s two glasses of blood as soon as the sun goes down, and one more early in the morning. Most of the time, Pete stays with them, only losing himself for a short while, or waking up clouded and thrashing but quickly coming to. He does so well, in fact, that Andy approves Patrick to loosen the silver restraints (but not remove them completely) so that he can move about more freely. 

But comfort breeds complacency, and Pete can’t bring himself to tell them it’s not enough. Not just in quantity - though he could easily consume a gallon or more each night if they’d let him - but he’s weak, too, and knows why. Pete knows they can’t tell since even weakened he’s stronger than he ever was, but he can feel the fatigue and they way he can’t stop thinking about the _swishswishswish_ he can hear under their skin. Every day the pig’s blood feels less satisfying, tastes worse, but Pete figures at least he’s getting good at control. He’s more than capable of discomfort; he’s been uncomfortable nearly every damn day of his life. So, Pete puts his concerns to rest and works on keeping up morale while his bandmates research and applaud their own successes. Pete’s never been good at asking for help.


	10. You're A Canary; I'm A Coal Mine

As Pete seems more and more Pete, daily research shifts to outbreaks and cures, none of which turns up much at all. However, Andy notes a suspicious uptick of missing persons in Chicago and a few other major cities, and a phone call from Brendon later in the week confirms their fears - the vampire population is growing. 

“How is this not national news?” Patrick shakes his head in disbelief, refreshing CNN for the eighth time. “Where is ‘CHICAGO OVERRUN BY BLOODSUCKERS’? ‘GUESS WHAT - VAMPIRES ARE REAL AND COMING FOR YOU’? You can’t possibly tell me no one else has fucking _noticed_ anything?” _Refresh. Refresh. Refresh._

Joe munches thoughtfully on a Poptart. “Well, obviously the government would cover this up. Wouldn’t want mass panic, or- I mean maybe this is some virus they built in a lab.” His voice is steady, informative, like he’s just relaying some basic fact about the world. “You know, it’s just like Area 51, they’ve probably known about this for years. We’re just lucky we found out when we did, you know. Now we gotta lay low or they’ll kidnap Pete and run experiments on him.” 

Andy side-eyes his friend, just as judgemental of his food choice as his conspiracy theories. “You’re high.” 

“Bet your ass,” Joe smiles, and unwraps another Poptart. Patrick chuckles to himself and hits _Refresh_ again. 

A chime signals an incoming text on Andy’s phone, and he glances at it before relaying the message. “Hey, guys, Brendon wants to know if tonight’s an okay time to visit. Sound alright?” The other two nod and murmur in agreement, so Andy fires back a quick _yeah, see ya soon_ , and says, “And with that, I think we’re low on a few supplies - _definitely_ low on food that’s not 99% carcinogens.” He accentuates this last phrase with a pointed look at Joe, who sits surrounded by shiny silver wrappers.

Patrick stands. “I’ll go. Need to swing by my place for more clothes anyway, and I’ve missed my guitar.” 

“Want company?” Joe offers, but Patrick shakes his head.

“Nah, it’ll be good to have a little alone time.” He grins. “It’s pretty rough being trapped in here with you lot day in and day out, you know?” Joe attempts a glare but laughs instead. “Yeah, okay.” Patrick gathers his wallet and heads out, making a mental note to pick up more beer, too; Brendon will be deeply disappointed if there isn’t any.

Brendon knocks on the door just after 6, as the sun is hanging low behind the buildings in the distance. He looks better than the last time they saw him - well rested, smiling, with a six pack of craft beer in one hand and a half-full handle of vodka in the other. “Hello, gentlemen! In honor of Pete’s astounding recovery, I figured this was a bit of a celebration, yeah?” He swishes the vodka and kicks the door shut behind him. “Speaking of Dracula, how’s he doing? Not up yet, I take it?”

“Hey, Brendon,” Andy smiles, taking the beer. The men manage a one armed hug with their alcohol-free hands. “Yeah he’s asleep, he’s been great, really. He’ll wake up in 20 minutes or so, but I wouldn’t call him Dracula to his face. Understandably, I think, he doesn’t find this very funny, and he actually _could_ kill you if he wanted to.” Brendon looks a little taken aback at the comment, but Andy grins and hits him lightly on the shoulder. “Aw, he’s not gonna kill you, man.” With a laugh, Andy turns and takes the beer to the fridge. They really are in good spirits tonight; It finally feels like things could be okay.

Brendon follows Andy towards the kitchen, waving at Joe, plopped across the living room couch, on the way. “Where’s Trick at?”

Andy’s head disappears inside the fridge as he rearranges things to fit the beers. They slide neatly between two of Pete’s gallon jugs, forming a strange vignette. “He’s out grabbing food and clothes and stuff. Should be back any minute.” 

“Oh, cool. Pass me one of those, would ya?” Andy pulls out two bottles before closing the fridge and grabs the magnetic bottle opener off the side, popping the caps with a hiss. They carry their drinks to the living room, where Andy hands the second beer over to Joe. 

“Thanks,” Joe says, sitting up. “Well, Brendon, I’m sure we haven’t said it enough - really we’ll _never_ say it enough - but thank you for being the kind of friend who will drop everything and come deal with a vampire. Cheers, motherfucker.” He leans forward and inclines the bottle; Brendon clinks the necks together lightly. 

“Anything for family, and you know you guys are family.” 

“Damn right we are!” Joe cheers, and takes a sip. 

The sun slinks below the horizon, casting its last few shadows across the apartment as it disappears completely. Joe stands, empty beer bottle in hand. “Alrighty. Time for Pete’s juice box.” 

Pete wakes up to the smell of the blood. He’s used to this now, the excitement, the arousal, being on the edge of control. He can hear someone moving in the kitchen, can hear the pulse of the other two just outside the door. He blinks slightly, shifts his position for comfort, and brings himself to sitting. It takes focus, this part, and he rubs one of the chains lightly with his thumb, searing the flesh. Pain keeps him grounded, when it’s small enough, gives him something else to pay attention to while he waits. They usually all come in at once - probably for safety, like they should - and it’s a lot for him to handle, their smells so quickly and so close, but he says their names in his head, feels the pain on his fingers, and he’s okay. 

Joe’s looking for a straw - Pete hears him call out to Andy for assistance. The straws are helpful, Pete agrees. He’s still not used to his new teeth, and try as he might, there’s no way to control their appearance when he drinks. The straw fits neatly between them, lets him drink discreetly and keeps him from spilling. 

Andy replies something, moving towards the kitchen. It's then that Pete notices it's not Patrick outside the door, smells like Brendon instead. _Hm_ , he thinks, _Where's Trick at?_ Pete scans the apartment, listening for Patrick's heartbeat. It's distinct, with a tiny murmur between beats, and so Pete can always find him easily. That, and his smell, which is the only part of his vampirism that Pete loves. He always loved the scent of Patrick, a mixture of soap and vanilla, loved laying his head in his lap and nuzzling against his soft abdomen so it was all he knew, but that all feels so subtle now. Now, it’s like breaking open a kaleidoscope - a million molecules swirling together, every one different and exciting. Patrick is sugar and milk, soft wood, ink and paper, cotton. Bursts of black pepper and coriander and earth. He is still Pete’s favorite scent in the world, he just knows it so much better now. 

But Pete doesn’t smell him, doesn’t hear the _ba-dum-shch-ba-dum_ of his heart anywhere, which surprises the vampire. Patrick is always here when he wakes up. There’s a quick, light knock on the door, and Joe walks in, cup and straw in hand, grinning. 

“Hey, Pete, how do you-”

“Where’s Patrick?” For the moment he doesn’t even care about the blood, even as he’s painfully aware of it. 

“Oh, um,” Joe looks surprised, “He should be back any minute, Pete, he just ran some errands. Here,” he says, handing Pete the cup. 

Pete takes it, but doesn’t drink. “He went out this late? It’s just - I mean he’s always here.”

Andy steps forward, “Yeah, I know, he’s just running a little late, Pete, drink up. He’ll be back before you-”

“Actually,” Joe glances around, thinking, “Actually, he _has_ been gone for like, a pretty long time.” He turns to Andy and Brendon. “I mean he left what, like 4 hours ago?” 

Brendon looks concerned. “Should we call him? There are, well, _things_ out and about you know.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy nods, “I’ll just call him, hang on.” He digs his phone out of his pocket. “And _drink that_ , Pete.” Pete obediently sips at the drink, but keeps his eyes locked on Andy’s phone the entire time. Andy clicks to dial Patrick and puts the phone to his ear, waiting. After six rings, it goes to voicemail, and the room suddenly feels uncomfortable. 

“Should we…?” Brendon trails off.

“Look for him,” Pete insists. “He’s in trouble. He’d be here.” 

Andy runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I mean, given the… situation, it does uh… worry me.” 

Pete stands, placing the half-full cup of blood on the bedside table. The chains roll off his lap onto the floor with a clink. “What the fuck are we standing around here for come on, we need to go _right fucking now._ ” 

Joe nods, looking to Andy for direction. “Okay, yeah, let’s, um, let’s go. And keep trying to call him, grab some supplies, and we can… we can check his place first…” The three men turn to leave the room and Pete yanks lightly on one arm, pulling against his bonds. 

“Hello? Shitheads? Forgetting someone?” 

“Oh, Pete,” Andy turns, “No. Definitely not. We can’t… you know we can’t… come on, Pete.”

Pete’s eyes black out at once. “The _fuck_ , Hurley?” He seems to swell with rage, looking every bit the vampire he is, eyes narrowed and fangs peeking out below his upper lip. “Are you fucking telling me,” his voice is low, almost a growl, “that _Patrick, my motherfucking best fucking friend,_ is probably in danger, maybe even from _fucking vampires_ , and you’re going to _LEAVE ME THE FUCK HERE?_ ” He snarls, and the three men back up a step. 

Andy shoos the others behind him out the door. “Pete, man, I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go, and you’re _just not ready_ for this, I mean… what if he’s bleeding, man? Or-” And this was the wrong choice of words, because Pete lunges forward, catching both arms behind himself, as far as his chains will allow.

“ _IF HE’S FUCKING BLEEDING, HURLEY, YOU’RE A FUCKING DEAD MAN! FUCKING UNCHAIN ME!”_

He can hear Joe and Brendon rustling in the living room, and Andy is backing out, closing the door. “I’m really, _really_ sorry, Pete. We’re going to find him. He’s probably just fine, alright? And we’re all worried for nothing. We’ll be back soon, okay? Just… I’m sorry.” And with that, Pete is alone, chained to a water pipe, screaming after his friends as they leave. 

“ _FUCK YOU ALL!_ ” And he knows what this must look like, must sound like; but he’s not just Pete right now, he’s a vampire, and he’s pissed as hell. He roars after them, snarls, bares his fangs at no one in particular, tries in vain to pull at the chains. “ _YOU CAN ALL GO TO FUCKING HELL!_ ” 

The front door shuts, a click as someone locks it. He can hear them head down the hall to the stairwell, can hear them down the stairs and only barely loses them as they cross out into the night. He screams again. “What the _fuck_?!”

“How do they even think they’re going to _find_ him?” He’s roiling, taking small steps forward and back, straining against the chains. “He could be fucking _anywhere_ , those _shitheads_ , why is he even _out alone_? Aaaah!” _I’m not fucking sitting here, those fucks,_ he thinks. _No fucking way, I’m not._ And he may be drinking pig’s blood, a weak version of what he knows he could be, but the anger helps fuel him, and he pulls with all his might, knocking his protective cuffs loose, smoke rising where the metal cuts deep into his wrists and forearms. He growls in pain and rage, keeps fighting, and breaks a link, freeing his left arm. His whole body swings forward with the sudden release, and, energized with the success, rips forward with his right side, ignoring the deep fissures in his skin, the dangling chain now brushing against his exposed calf, and is free. A moment later, the bedroom door hangs by one hinge, thrown open hard enough to punch the doorknob through the wall. _I’m fucking coming, Patrick,_ he thinks, taking only enough care not to remove the front door as well, _You just hang on._

__

Pete can smell him in the hallway, faint from many hours ago, but distinct. Patrick needs to be found, and Pete is made to hunt. He runs down the hall, jumps the rail in the stairwell, and lands two floors below, soft on the balls of his feet. The chains dangle at his sides, leaving behind welts where they catch skin, his wrists a shiny mess, bone visible on the right one. He does not care. Pete is outside, takes a deep breath of the cold night air. It’s more difficult, out here with so many other scents and sounds, but he finds Patrick again, and sets off running.

__


	11. Novocaine

_Shit._ Patrick hikes the guitar case back up his shoulder. He had definitely meant to be back by now, doesn’t really like the idea of walking around in the dark these days. But he got sidetracked, tried to do too much, and now he’s not just trying to speedwalk back to Joe’s in the dark, but his arms are sore carrying beer and food and clothes and a guitar and _why oh why_ did he bring the goddamn guitar? His phone lies, vibrating and unnoticed, at the bottom of his backpack, stuffed with clothes and slung awkwardly over one shoulder. Patrick shrugs the straps up again and hustles on. 

The streetlamps cast elongated golden shadows on the people and things along the way. Patrick sticks to main roads, where he figures he’s safest. He keeps his head down, hat brim obscuring his vision, and presses forward. It’s about a mile out from Joe’s apartment when he’s forced off the major roadways and through a park. Under normal circumstances, this would be a place he’d sit at night, guitar in hand, jotting chord notes onto the notebook pages scrawled black with Pete’s handwriting. But times are different, and Patrick speeds up, not quite a jog but close, calves burning and guitar bouncing against his lower back.

Hats have always made Patrick feel safe - helped him hide his face as a teenager, covered his thinning hair after, now a security blanket that’s as much a force of habit as anything else. But they also keep his peripherals shaded and blurry, and he misses the shapes moving in the dark on his left. He’s well past the spot - midway between two light posts - where the darkness writhed when he hears a voice behind him.

“Drop the bags.” 

At first he’s just surprised, and freezes, and something solid presses against his side, and the voice repeats, right behind him, as he feels another body to his side.

“I said, _drop them_.” 

It’s a knife, he realizes with dread, and crouches an inch to drop the grocery bags at his side. “Okay, okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He’s not sure what to do - he’d been prepared for the worst, but honestly he’d _only_ been prepared for the worst. These aren’t vampires, they’re muggers, and they’re armed, and Patrick is no more useful against a knife than a superhuman. 

The bags are on the sidewalk, and Patrick stands straight, slowly raises his hands to eye level. “Take them, you can have them, okay?”

The knife presses hard against his abdomen. It’s not enough to cut - yet, but he’s wary nonetheless. “The backpack, too.” 

“And the guitar,” comes the voice to his left.

He begins to drop the backpack slowly to the ground and pleads, “Seriously, my guitar? Please, I’ve had it forever, it’s-” 

The fist hits the back of his skull at full speed and Patrick is on the ground faster than he realizes what’s happened. He blinks to clear the black stars and tries to roll over, but receives a kick to his side in reply. The guitar case is being yanked off his back, the cross-body strap pulling up hard into his armpit. He’s not sure why, but Patrick rolls and grabs onto the instrument, holding it tight. It’s not a smart decision, but he’s really not thinking and they’re _taking his guitar_.

He may not be a pudgy teenager anymore, but Patrick is no wrestler, no athlete, and he’s certainly no match for two other fully grown men. They rip the case away from him, popping his shoulder in the process, and Patrick finds himself in so much pain that he can do nothing but hold his arm and wince. The assailants seem undeterred, in fact seem encouraged, and suddenly Patrick is being hit from all sides. Most of the contact is blunt, bruising, but he feels something hard connect with his nose, jaw, and he tastes blood. Another swing connects with his elbow and the pain is white-hot, radiating into his fingers. He cries out, choking, “Please, please, just take-”

At first he thinks it’s a wolf, or maybe a bear, and then he has enough common sense to think _there are no wild predators in downtown Chicago_ , and he’s sort of right, in that there are no wolves or bears, but he’s entirely wrong about predators. The snarl comes from somewhere off to his right, but Patrick’s got his eyes closed, face covered with his forearms as he receives blow after blow to his torso, so he can’t entirely identify the source, even if it sounds familiar. He’s sure that he’s about to lose consciousness, or die, or both, when there’s a _whoosh_ and a _thud_ above his head, and suddenly the beating stops. He rolls to his knees, wincing, breathing labored, and presses his forehead to the rough pavement. Rolling his head to the right, he sees Pete - black-eyed, fanged, and nearly foaming at the mouth - crouched over a man with his hand on his throat.

“P-Pete?” Patrick gasps, choking a bit on fluid - he hopes not blood. He tries to push himself up to kneeling, but his arms give out.

Pete snaps to look at him, and it’s something entirely new. This isn’t the vampire - Patrick can see Pete, can see the steady way he inhales and the curve of his spine that tells him his friend is in control - but it’s not quite Pete either. There’s something in his face, something in his curled lip, the way he clenches his fingers right around the attacker’s windpipe…

Just as quickly, Pete turns back to his prey and closes his fist, ripping a gaping hole in his throat with no effort. Patrick gags, tries to speak, “Wait, wait, Pete-” but the body is still beneath him and he launches himself at the other man, who is turning to run away. His neck is broken before he hits the ground.

Patrick coughs, tries again to stand, to sit up, and his head swims. When he catches Pete’s eyes again, his front is drenched in red, the vampire panting with pleasure, and Patrick closes his eyes as Pete’s tongue swipes slowly across his lips and fangs, lapping up the blood left behind. When Pete begins crawling slowly toward him, Patrick is violently aware of his bloodied nose.

“Pete,” he gasps, coughing again, “Hold on now, Pete. Hang on.” Pete’s bloody, distorted face comes into view, hangs over him, his breath grossly hot and metallic.

Pounding footsteps echo up from behind them. “Patrick!” “Trick!” “Holy shit, man, are you-”

Pete spins on a dime, leaps, and Joe is on the pavement, howling and clutching his arm. 

“Pete?! What the-” Brendon begins, but Andy is quicker, runs at him with the silver chain he’s brought, catching his face and neck. Pete lands on his back, growling, skin sizzling under the metal, but he’s been burned by the silver for far too long now, and it barely registers. With a grunt, he sits forward, throwing Andy back into the corner of a bench. He slumps over immediately, crying out. Brendon hopes to God he didn’t hit his spine. 

Pete leaps to a crouch between Patrick and the others, perched on the balls of his feet, breathing heavily, fangs bared. 

Patrick can finally breathe again, clearly injured but okay. “ _Pete_ ,” he exhales, “What did you _do? _”__

____

Pete sniffs, leaning back on his haunches. He blinks and tries to clear the infinite blackness from his eyes; He’d reacted on instinct, Patrick was hurt, he’d been trying to…

____

The vampire stands suddenly, and spins to look at each of his friends in turn. Patrick, doubled over on his hands and knees, holding a bloody nose, his breath catching. Joe, on his back, holding his arm and crying silently. Andy curled on the ground with Brendon next to him, touching his shoulder protectively and staring at Pete with fear.

____

Next to his friends, two bodies lie, both covered in crimson and deathly still. Pete takes a step back, then another. His hands fly to his mouth, partially obscuring the fangs that still have red flecks clinging to them. “Fuck, I- I’m... “ He swallows, “I didn’t-” His eyes dart among the conscious, seeking sympathy, calm, forgiveness, understanding, _anything_. Only terror and pain reply.

____

“ _I-_.”

____

Pete turns to run, and he’s gone into the night.

____


	12. Car Crash Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor, please forgive what I can only assume are wildly inaccurate injuries and healing patterns.

_STUMPH, PATRICK MARTIN // MALE // 28 Y.O._  
_PRESENTS WITH: BLEEDING FROM NASAL CAVITY; FACIAL BRUISING; REPORTS PAIN (7 OF 10) THROUGH SINUS CAVITY; SWELLING IN L EYE; BRUISING AND CONTUSIONS ACROSS TORSO AND LIMBS; PAIN (9 OF 10) IN L FOREARM RADIATING FROM ELBOW; NUMBNESS IN L DIGITS NO. 2, 3, 4; PAIN (9 OF 10) IN L SHOULDER; LIMITED/RESTRICTED MOTION IN L ARM; LACERATIONS AND SWELLING ACROSS BODY._  
_DIAGNOSIS:_

> _1\. HAIRLINE NOSE FRACTURE_  
>  _2\. DISLOCATED L SHOULDER_  
>  _3\. L ELBOW FRACTURE_  
>  _4\. L RADIAL NERVE DAMAGE - MINOR_

_HURLEY, ANDREW JOHN // MALE // 32 Y.O._  
_PRESENTS WITH: SYNCOPE; BRUISING ON LOWER MID BACK; PAIN (9 OF 10) IN LOWER BACK, RADIATING TO SHOULDER BLADE AND PELVIS; REPORTS “ELECTRIC” SENSATIONS IN LOWER MID BACK._  
_DIAGNOSIS:_  


> _1\. MINOR CONTUSION TO LUMBAR VERTEBRAE L1, L2, L3_  
>  _2\. MODERATE CONCUSSION, GRADE 2_

_TROHMAN, JOSEPH MARK // MALE // 27 Y.O._  
_PRESENTS WITH: PAIN (8 OF 10) IN R FOREARM; NUMBNESS IN R HAND, ALL DIGITS; SWELLING AND BRUISING IN R FOREARM; VISIBLE ANGULATION DEFORMITY TO R FOREARM._  
_DIAGNOSIS:_  


> _1\. CLOSED COMPOUND FRACTURE IN R ARM  
>  _
>
>> _1A. COMMINUTED FRACTURE TO R RADIUS  
>  1B. TRANSVERSE FRACTURE TO R ULNA_
> 
>  _2\. R RADIAL NERVE DAMAGE - SEVERE_

It takes four days for all of them to be released from the hospital. When they are, they’ve got 25 stitches, three prescriptions for painkillers, two splints, four braces, two casts, and one sling between them. Patrick is slated for a full recovery with time, but Joe’s nerve damage is extensive enough that he’s told he may never regain feeling in his index and middle fingers. Andy is the last to come home; although the concussion isn’t too serious, the clotting near his vertebrae is cause for concern, and he is rushed into surgery to try to relieve the pressure from swelling and save the sensation in his lower body. When Brendon picks him up, he needs help to walk from the wheelchair to the car, then from the car to the apartment, and is discharged with weekly physical therapy appointments and a packet detailing daily stretches he must do to promote healing. Luckily, he hit the bench just to the left of the bones themselves, so anti-inflammatories and therapy should be sufficient to prevent permanent damage.

They don’t talk about it, not really. Everyone returns to Joe’s, partially out of habit, and partially because each man needs help with different tasks. With Joe and Patrick each down one arm, and Andy still unstable on his feet, it takes all three of them to manage daily life. Brendon drops by daily at first, then every other day, bringing food and prescription refills, helping change dressings, taking Andy to his therapy sessions. It’s Brendon who puts the bedroom door back in place.

Pete is still gone almost a month later. Patrick only misses him some days; on the others, he watches Joe attempt to play his guitar and slip on the chords to _Sugar_ , trying over and over in frustration, or notices the pill bottles clumped in three groups around the kitchen sink. On these days, Patrick just feels lost.

The first time they mention it, they’re sitting in silence in the living room eating dinner. The television is on, a football game that none of them cares about, but the volume is inaudible and no one so much as glances at it. 

“Do you think he’s….. you know, like _out there?_ ” Patrick mumbles. He’s been missing Pete today.

Andy shrugs and stares at his food. Joe meets Patrick’s eyes for a moment and then feigns interest in the Cowboys.

“Seriously, guys, do we just pretend he’s not our friend?”

Joe exhales hard. “Patrick, he... “ Joe waves his cast halfheartedly. 

Patrick begins to say something about how _that wasn’t Pete_ and _he couldn’t help himself_ , but Patrick had seen it, had witnessed the control Pete had. He closes his mouth. 

They return to silence, the faint roar of the television crowd surprisingly dominant. “What I don’t get, though,” Andy blurts, causing the other two to start, “Is how he managed not to hurt _you_.” He looks dead at Patrick, face serious. 

“What?” Joe questions, almost incredulous.

“I mean, think about it. He’s outside, unchained - and he can barely keep it together in here sometimes, I’ve seen it - and he _feeds_ for fuck’s sake with you bleeding right there next to him, and he doesn’t do a thing? And I know we startled him, and he should never have attacked us, but…” Andy trails off, looking almost like he’s surprised himself with his thoughts. “It’s just impressive, that’s all.” He takes another bite of food to avoid speaking more.

Joe looks shocked. “Really?” 

“He was just trying to protect me,” Patrick says quietly.

“He nearly paralyzed Andy!” Joe cries, and shakes his damaged arm towards the drummer. “And he didn’t exactly give me a hug in the process!”

Patrick looks forlorn, stares at the carpet. “I know, I know. And I’m not defending that, I just… I just hope he’s okay.” His voice is solemn, broken, and they resume gazing off in opposite directions. 

A few days later, Patrick is shuffling around the apartment in the morning when he notices a folded piece of paper under the door. Rubbing the sleep out of his eye, he picks it up, unfolds the lined sheet. Slightly off center, scrawled in the chicken scratch Patrick has grown so good at deciphering, it reads _**im so fucking sorry**_.


	13. The Kids Aren't Alright

“Well, _obviously_ we’re going to look for him.” Patrick stares pointedly at Andy and Joe in turn. Pete’s note lies on the kitchen island between them, the men positioned around it.

Joe closes his eyes and tilts his head back, face to the ceiling. “Patrick, that is quite literally the worst idea.” He brings his head back down and looks at Andy. “Tell him.” 

Andy’s eyeing the paper on the counter. “It’s definitely not a _great_ plan…”

Patrick and Joe make aggressive eye contact, each attempting to stare the other down. Patrick gives up first, but only to address Andy as he speaks. 

“Guys, he is out there somewhere, and,” Patrick gestures at the note, “ _he’s sorry_ , and you know Pete as well as I do, he’s probably just beating himself up about this! We can work on it, we just need to go out and _find_ him, and then-”

Andy cuts him off. “But how would we even find him? This is a huge city, Patrick, and he could be absolutely anywhere. And that’s assuming he’s even in Chicago.”

Joe turns his indignant expression to Andy. “You’re not seriously considering this, are you? May I remind you that I am still _in a cast_ and we have _no clue_ where he is and there are _vampires out there?_ ”

“Yes, and one of those vampires is _our best friend Pete_ ,” Patrick says. “And I would suggest we check his apartment, for starters. We can take my car, we don’t have to wander around in the dark like idiots, okay? I think I learned my fucking lesson.”

Joe does not look convinced, and both men turn to Andy for an opinion. He picks up the note and rubs it between his fingers. “Look,” he shifts his weight, looks at the singer, “the fact is, when you needed him, Pete came. I think we can all agree that we probably wouldn’t have made it in time. He may have botched the end of his rescue mission, but he’s also the reason Patrick is alright.” Andy turns to Joe. “It was stupid and reckless, but since when has Pete been known for his decision-making skills? And you know he’d have done the same thing for us. We basically snuck up on him, and we have to remember he’s different now. That was our mistake as much as his. We all fucked up.” 

Patrick nods, agreeing. “He came looking for me. I think we owe him the same.”

Joe folds his arms, left crossed possessively across the hard plaster on his right. “Yeah, okay, but I’m staying in the fucking car.” 

That evening, Patrick pulls his Corolla up in front of Joe’s building and pops the trunk. Inside, they load tens of feet of silver chain, an entire box full of makeshift wooden stakes, and four jars of minced garlic ( _“What would we even do with that?” “Um, throw it at them, obviously.”_ ). Andy slides into the back seat as Joe climbs in the front, reaching for the aux cord. 

“Alright, if we’re vampire hunting, we at least need some kick-ass mood music.” Joe plugs in his phone and starts scrolling through his library.

Andy leans forward between the seats. “We are not vampire hunting. We’re looking for Pete.”

Shrugging, Joe grins, “Like I said, hunting for a vampire.” He hits play, frenetic guitar exploding through the sound system, and Patrick pulls the car into traffic. “There we go, now it’s an adventure.”

They drive about 45 minutes through the city, and arrive at Pete’s building just as the sun is setting. Patrick and Andy climb out of the car, Andy grabbing a handful of supplies from the trunk. Both are surprised to see Joe standing, too, despite his previous assurances that _seriously, I am not getting out of this car_. 

“What?” He asks, noting the looks of the other two. “Figure I’m fucking dead anyway if a vamp comes at me.” Andy nods, “True.” And it’s almost funny, but he grips the stake a little tighter and turns up to the complex.

Patrick pulls out his spare key, knocking lightly as he opens the door, and calls out, “Pete? Hey, Pete, you here?” He swings the door open all the way and enters, flanked by his bandmates. The apartment is empty, dark. A thin layer of dust coats everything, and Patrick walks across the room to Pete’s bass, proudly standing near an amp and his entertainment center. He runs his fingers lightly across the headstock, leaving trails in the particulates. 

“He hasn’t been here in months,” Andy sighs. Joe murmurs in agreement and Patrick turns back around.

“Yeah, I’m surprised, honestly. I really thought he’d be here. Or, at least would’ve been here at _some_ point. Left a clue.” But it’s clear that Pete hasn’t come home, not since the night he was bitten. 

Joe leans back against the wall, relaxing now that it’s clear there’s nothing to fight. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to be found?” 

Patrick takes a last glance around before heading back to the front door. “Yeah, maybe.” They file out into the hallway, and Patrick locks the door carefully behind them. Back in the car, there is a tangible pause. 

“So, what do we do now?” Joe sounds genuine, turns to look at Patrick, who has both hands on the steering wheel, but the keys in his lap. He shrugs. They sit in silence, each at a loss, and Patrick is just reaching down to grab the keys when a suspiciously familiar figure emerges from an alley at the end of the building. Joe notices him first, whacks Patrick hard on the shoulder. “Hey - hey! Look!” 

“ _Ow._ ” Patrick rubs the spot and glances out the windshield where Joe is pointing. It’s Pete alright, walking up the street with his hands in his pockets. “Well, shit.”

Patrick is about to jump out of the car and run after him, but Andy senses it and puts a hand on his arm. “Let’s try not to scare the shit out of him this time, yeah?”

So, Patrick opens the door slowly instead, gets out as Andy and Joe exit the other side. Rather than chase the vampire, Patrick cups his hands around his mouth and calls out after him. “Hey - Pete!” He turns immediately, and he’s much too far away for Patrick to tell what color eyes are looking back at him. Patrick begins to step towards him, mirrored by the other two. “Pete, we’ve been looking for you.” 

Pete glances around, bows his head, and shuffles slowly in their direction. When he’s close enough, he mutters, “What are you guys doing here?” He finally looks up from the ground, all brown eyes and sadness. Patrick nearly bear hugs him, relieved as he is, and grins softly. 

“What do you think we’re doing, Pete? We’re here to bring you back home.” Pete’s eyes dart to Joe’s cast and he takes a deep breath, shaking his head. 

“Yeah that’s not gonna happen. I need to… I mean, I can’t. It’s not safe.” 

Joe turns slightly, trying his best to subtly move his arm out of sight. Andy gives Pete a sympathetic smile. “Look, it’s okay, man. We get it. Things are… different. You didn’t mean to. You weren’t in control-”

Pete shakes his head again. “No, you _don’t_ get it.” His voice is louder now, and he pulls his hands from his pockets, running them through his hair instead. Patrick notices what look like bracelets, but realizes quickly what they are - silver chain. Pete’s wrists are covered in lesions and scars, and Patrick wonders if he can’t get them off himself. “I knew _exactly_ what I was doing. I mean, sure, I didn’t totally realize it was you guys at first, but like…. _fuck_ even if it _wasn’t_ you, what kind of a fucking monster am I?” His voice breaks a little, and he meets eyes with Joe. “I am so, _so_ unbelievably sorry, I really am,” he turns to Andy, “but I obviously need to be alone.” Pete turns and begins to walk away, calling back over his shoulder, “So thanks for coming, I guess, and I’m glad you’re okay, but just… forget about me, okay? I’ll be fine.”

The three men exchange looks briefly, but Patrick darts forward, catches Pete’s arm. He seems startled by the touch, spins, eyes blown ink-dark. “Pete,” the singer tries. Pete yanks his hand free. 

“You need to go, Patrick.” There’s a hint of a growl in his voice. It’s barely there, controlled, but Patrick doesn’t care. The two other men stay cautiously back.

“Fuck you, Pete, I’m not going anywhere. You fucked up, we all did, and you don’t get to throw yourself a never-ending pity party because of it. We’re here, aren’t we? So get in the fucking car and let’s go home.” 

Pete narrows his eyes, looking thoroughly angry now. He takes a step forward; everyone but Patrick takes one back. “I said,” and there’s definitely a growl this time, voice raised, “you need to _fucking go._ ”

Patrick stands his ground, defiant. “No. Get in the goddamn car, Pete.”

“You fucking _idiot!_ ” Pete yells, stepping again, too close to Patrick now. “You shouldn’t be fucking standing here,” he sneers as he curls his upper lip, fangs growing in. Andy and Joe take another step back, startled. Patrick remains unmovable. 

“And yet HERE I AM, PETE!” Patrick doesn’t have the teeth and the eyes, but he’s as capable of fighting back as ever. His melodic voice drips with sarcasm as he challenges, “Pray tell what _you_ think I should be doing then, in all your _infinite wisdom_?” 

“You should be fucking RUNNING!” Pete screams, and Andy and Joe look like they’re about to do just that, but all Patrick sees is the same pissy, self-loathing man he’s known and loved for over a decade, and he is completely over the posturing.

Patrick bellows into Pete’s face, “I’M NOT RUNNING FROM YOU, YOU SELF-ABSORBED BASTARD!” and swings a right hook directly at him. His fist connects with the - _very solid_ \- side of Pete’s head, and Patrick yanks his arm back in pain. Pete’s eyes go wide and fade back to brown, fangs melting away as his mouth hangs agape. Behind them, Andy’s holding his face in his hands like he can’t believe what’s happening, and Joe looks utterly shocked, arms up and resting on top of his head. He stares, whispers, “ _What?_ ”

Everything freezes, and Patrick whines, holding his fist. “ _Fucking hell_ ,” he rubs his knuckles. “Shit, that hurt.”

Pete’s stunned expression holds as he searches for words. “What did…. Did you… Why.. Patrick, what…” Then, suddenly, his mouth twitches, and he’s trying not to laugh. “Did… Patrick, did you just _punch a vampire?_ ” 

Patrick nods, wincing and massaging his hand. “Yeah, first and last time.” 

Pete bursts into laughter, and it’s the most amazing sound Patrick’s ever heard, the same full, bouncing guffaw it’s always been. Seconds later, the four men are standing on the sidewalk, laughing themselves to tears. 

Once Patrick can breathe properly again, he smiles at Pete, nods towards the Corolla. “Please, Pete, just get in the car. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah okay.” Pete starts to move towards the vehicle, then stops. “Wait, can we… can we grab some things from my place first?” 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Patrick turns, leading the group back into the building. As they walk, he turns to Pete. “But, um Pete. Why didn’t you just stay in your apartment? Like, we went up there looking for you, man. I don’t understand why you’d-”

“I can’t go in.” He sounds defeated. “I tried. It’s.. well, it’s the first place I came. But, as it turns out, I don’t really know how to explain it…”

They turn a corner and find themselves at Pete’s door. Patrick unlocks it again and steps inside, holding it open for the others. Finally, Pete is left standing in the hallway, swinging his arms. 

“Well…?” Patrick questions.

Some emotion flicks quickly across Pete’s face. _Embarrassment?_ , Patrick wonders. “You’ve, uh… I guess I need you to…”

And it clicks. “ _Holy shit,_ ” Patrick muses, “ _Do you need me to invite you into your own fucking house?_ ” 

Pete rolls his eyes, tries to shrug it off. “Yeah, I mean… I guess.”

Patrick just looks stunned. “Huh, wow. Well, come on in, you fangy motherfucker.” Pete smiles slightly and steps inside. “I really didn’t think.. I mean of all the things…”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees as he begins shoving things into a backpack lying on the floor. “Surprised the shit outta me, too. And apparently it doesn’t matter that this place is mine. So, I just kinda… made a spot nearby. I just didn’t really know what else to do.” He flinches, catching the backpack zipper on one of his open wounds. He shakes his wrist out and goes back to trying to fit his favorite hoodie inside.

Andy looks at him, identifies the silver. “Pete, do you need us to get those off you? I’m so sorry you’ve had them on this whole time, I would’ve thought you’d-”

“No.” Pete says simply. “They’re on purpose.” He fails to elaborate, and they can tell from the finality in his voice that the topic is closed for discussion. 

“Okay, then.”

It takes Pete about an hour to pack up everything he wants, and it eventually fills two backpacks and a few small boxes. Each man takes an item, and they trek together back down to the car. They pop the trunk, and Pete jerks backwards. 

“Oh, fuck, Pete, sorry,” Andy leans in and tries to throw a blanket over the anti-vampire supplies. “Just had to be careful, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s cool, just… it’s cool.” Pete nods, but he hands the box he’s carrying to Andy to put inside, followed by his backpack. They toss the rest of the belongings into the trunk and slam the hood. As they’re about to climb in, Pete pauses, head whipping towards some inaudible noise. 

“Pete?” Patrick asks. 

“ _Shh_ ,” he replies. The men grow quiet, watching Pete as he slowly closes the door and steps up onto the sidewalk. He inhales, then turns to them, eyes wide. “ _Shit!_ Fuck, get in the car, go!”

They react immediately, slamming the doors behind them, and Patrick jams the keys into the ignition, cranks it until the engine turns over and releases the parking brake. He shifts into drive, but keeps his foot on the brake - Pete is still outside. Patrick turns, looking over his shoulder out the back windshield at Pete, who is standing just slightly crouched behind the car, defensive. Patrick calls out to him, and Pete turns his head halfway, keeping the dark street behind them in his peripherals. He’s got his fangs, but they don’t make him lisp anymore and he shouts back, “Just go! I can find you!” 

So Patrick switches from brake to gas, and the car lurches forward, away from the curb. 

“What the hell is going on?” Andy asks, voice uncertain and wavering. Patrick shakes his head, doesn’t know, and watches in the rearview mirror at Pete growing smaller behind them. That’s when the first vampire lands on the hood of the speeding car.


	14. War Paint

Patrick slams on the brake, sending the back of the sedan into a fishtail. He jerks the steering wheel hard, trying to correct, and the rear wheel catches the curb, hopping it and hitting a light pole with a crunch. The car leans hard and then settles, but the creature perched on the hood snarls at them, snapping its teeth, and punches clean through the windshield. Patrick fumbles for the door, sliding far down in his seat to avoid the hand reaching for him. With a pop, the door opens, and Patrick rolls out onto the pavement, trying to back up and stand, and tripping over himself in the process. He sees Joe scrambling out the passenger door, Andy already trying to get the trunk open where all their weapons lie. 

The vampire on the hood - a female, with long, dark hair - pulls her arm back out of the cabin, hones in on Joe, who is stumbling up the curb, injured arm cradled against his stomach. Patrick is about to shout at him, warn him, when something large hits him from behind, knocking him to the ground on his chest. He’s trying to sit up to see what’s attacking him when he hears Andy shout, “Duck!” Patrick flattens himself against the road, hears the metallic sound of a chain whipping through the air, then a thud, sizzle, and screech that tells him it found its target. “Move!”

Patrick army crawls blindly, aiming for Andy’s voice, and pulls himself to a crouch. To his left, a huge male vampire lays on the ground, silver wrapped around his torso and neck and burning holes into his skin. He keeps reaching for the chains to pull them off, but his hands burn and he shrinks back. Andy rushes over, emptying an entire jar of garlic on him, causing the vampire to shriek in pain. 

On the other side of the car, Joe has backed up against the fence that runs along the sidewalk, the woman perched like a vulture on the roof of the car. Between them, Pete crouches low, coiled tight, one hand on the ground in front of him. He’s growling through bared teeth - a deep, threatening rumble - and something about the sound, the stance, the fangs, reminds Patrick of a wildcat, sleek and deadly. 

She moves first. 

It takes only a second - she lunges forward, intending to clear Pete completely and pin Joe to the fence, but Pete is faster. His body uncoils like a spring and he leaps up, just over her head, catching her skull between his hands. He flips forward, a mid-air somersault, and her body follows, snapping with the force and change of direction. In one fluid motion, he twists, breaking the head from the neck, the rest of her landing spread-eagled across the front of Patrick’s car. Pete uses the momentum to leap the car, landing softly on the other side. He covers the ground to the thrashing male vampire in a second, slams his hand down on the creature’s chest. Pete grimaces from the silver and garlic, but maintains contact. Beneath him, the body thrashes as though from an invisible electric shock, and in moments, goes still. When Pete stands, he shakes the garlic off his enflamed hand, leaving behind a charred hole in the vampire’s shirt and blackened flesh beneath it.

“We need to go,” he says, “Will it still run?” He looks at the car. The other three are too surprised to answer, and Patrick marvels, “What did-”

Pete turns to him, serious. “Patrick, there are more and they are coming. Can you take the car or not?” 

“I, uh -” he makes a motion to go inspect the damaged side, the broken windshield, but Joe is there first. 

“I really doubt it,” he sighs. The wheel well is crunched in against the tire, which will almost certainly pull it out of alignment, assuming it will go at all. 

Pete is unfazed. “Fine. Grab what you can and come with me.” They collect the contents of the trunk, leaving behind only a few stakes and a box of Pete’s things, and rush after Pete, who is speed walking down a side street. They walk for almost ten minutes, no one speaking, Pete stopping at every corner to peer intently down the street and take a deep whiff of the air, hoping to smell them before he can see them. Finally, they arrive at a large, rusty, unmarked warehouse door. Pete sets down the boxes he’s carrying and yanks hard on it, sliding it up. His hands blister, and Patrick sees that the handles have been replaced with silver. 

Pete ushers them inside quickly and pulls the door back down, plunging them into darkness. They can hear Pete padlocking the entrance, then he moves further into the space, calling out as he walks, “Sorry, sorry, I’m trying to find a light that works…” A faint clicking sounds like he’s flicking light switches, but the dark remains. Finally, far to the right, a single industrial bulb dances to life. It casts pale shadows across the huge warehouse, and the men survey their surroundings.

“Sorry about that,” Pete says, heading back over to them to collect his belongings. “I, um… Well, I don’t really need it, so…” It’s clear that Pete doesn’t like acknowledging any of his newer skills, probably for fear of making them uncomfortable, and Patrick tries to convey that it’s alright with a casual grin. 

“No worries, this is fine.” 

The warehouse is mostly empty - concrete pillars and exposed, burnt out lights, plumbing pipes creeping down the walls. Other than the rolling door they came through, there appears to be one other exit, a single doorway in the back with a handle so rusted it may not work at all. A huge rolling steel-top catering table and a couch that looks like it’s seen better days are the only furnishings, and a single shovel leans against a wall near the entrance. Otherwise, it’s about 6000 square feet of nothing. 

Joe sets down the box of chains and stakes, pushing them against the wall with his foot. “Pete, are you living here?” 

Pete leans across the steel table. “Yeah, it was abandoned, which I guess is why I could get in. Just needed somewhere safe to sleep.” 

Joe nods, “Well, I’m glad you found it. Seems solid enough.” 

Andy crosses the space, inspects the couch, and sits, exhaling. “So, um… do you fight them much?” 

Pete shakes his head as Joe joins Andy on the couch. “No, I don’t. I mostly avoid them. They don’t really think, they’re all instinct. There have been a few. Once, I - well, I think they’ve got territories, and I guess I wandered into one. It was a whole clan. I’m not even sure if they can tell I’m different, but they weren’t organized and I was able to fight a couple and run for it. That was the night I found this place.” He gestures around. 

“Well,” Andy makes deliberate eye contact, “Thank you. You saved our asses. And that’s twice for Patrick.” He stands and walks over the the table, stopping across from Pete. “Seriously, Pete, whatever happened before, it’s okay. _We’re_ okay, and now we’re alive because of you. So, remember that, and know that we’re here to work on this with you, risks and all.” 

Joe and Patrick walk over, joining the other two around the table, and Joe puts his casted arm around Pete’s shoulder softly. “We’re gonna make this work, alright?” Pete smiles at them, a little sadness behind it. “And that was some badass ninja shit, man,” Joe shakes his friend lightly, eliciting a bigger grin. Joe releases him, leaning forward on his elbows. 

“So, should we… stay here tonight I guess?” Andy offers. “We can try to get back to Joe’s tomorrow.” 

Pete nods, “Yeah, you can’t go back out there till it’s daytime. They’ll be all over the place.”

Patrick glances around at the expansive room. “I mean, it needs some furniture-”

“And lights,” Joe interjects.

“Yes, and lights,” Patrick goes on, “But this isn’t a bad space.” 

Andy looks around, approving. “Yeah, it’s huge, maybe a good home base?”

And with that, it’s decided. They’ll grab what they can from Joe’s in the morning while Pete sleeps and bring it back, but for the night, it’s late, and they’re not as used to a vampire schedule since Pete’s been gone. Andy and Joe share the couch, Patrick insisting that he’s not tired quite yet. Instead, Patrick heads to the other side of the warehouse, sitting down against a wall, and motions to Pete to join him. The vampire walks towards him, but stops suddenly, darting to the backpack he left on the floor nearby. When Pete sits down a few feet from Patrick, his arm is outstretched, offering the black hoodie he loves. 

“Here,” he says, shaking it, “it’s not a pillow, but it’s pretty fucking comfy.” Patrick takes it, holds it in his lap. 

“Thanks, Pete.” Patrick looks at Pete, feels the space between them like a chasm. Usually, Pete was in constant contact, like if he touched Patrick long enough maybe they’d blend together into one being. He can hardly think of a time when Pete wasn’t on his lap, or resting his head on his shoulder, grabbing his arm, putting his feet on Patrick’s knees, or just pressed up against him from head to ankle. Patrick used to complain about it, sometimes, ( _Get off, Pete, you weirdo, you’re a thousand degrees, that’s my crotch you perv_ ) but he also liked it, felt needed. Now, he misses it desperately, wonders if this is as hard for Pete as it is for him, if it’s as strange.

He’s cautious, careful in a way he never wanted to be, but Patrick looks at his best friend and turns his body, indicative. “Do you want - I mean, can you?” He puts one arm out, slowly, no sudden movements. 

Pete looks at him, brown eyes wide, hopeful. He sniffs, closes his eyes, nods, and scoots towards Patrick. He’s so much colder than he used to be, but he fits exactly the same, body pushed up under Patrick’s arm. “Just tell me if-” 

“Yeah,” Pete breathes, and snuggles closer. 

“I really missed you,” Patrick murmurs. “Have you been okay out here?” 

Pete wraps an arm around Patrick’s middle, careful not to squeeze too tight. “It’s been okay, I guess. Lonely.” 

Pete lapses into silence, and Patrick knows the question he needs to ask, but doesn’t want the answer. It’s important, though, and he tries to keep his voice low, measured, calm. “What have you been, um, eating?” 

He feels Pete stiffen under his arm. Then he sits up, staying close, and Patrick’s hand rests on the small of his back. “Trick, I -” 

Patrick lifts his arm, runs his hand through Pete’s hair briefly. “It’s okay, really.” 

“I mean I couldn’t get pig’s blood, you know, with the whole sleeping in the day thing, and I… well I tried not to for a few days, not after… but it’s so different. I feel _better_. Like, it’s hard to explain. I want it more, and, honestly I don’t think I can go back now, but I’m also more _me_.” He looks Patrick in the eyes. “It really helps. That, and,” he shakes his wrist lightly, the chain clinking and leaving welts behind where it rotates. “And I want you to know,” he continues quickly, “I try to only get the ones they’ve already gotten. I’ve, uh, fought a lot more off that way than anything else. They’re cruel, sometimes. They leave them alive and-” he looks pained, “Well, I can finish it quickly.” He looks upset, and Patrick pulls him back to his chest in an embrace. 

“Thanks for telling me. It’s alright, okay? We’ll figure this out, and you’re doing really well.” Pete nods against his sternum. They sit like that in silence for a few minutes, Patrick breathing slowly and drawing circles on Pete’s back through his shirt. Eventually, Patrick breaks the silence again. “So, what was that thing you did to the big one back there? You like, burned him.”

Pete doesn’t tighten up this time, just pushes himself closer to Patrick, one thigh sliding under Patrick’s bent knees. “Oh, that. I don’t know, really. I did it on accident the first time. It’s electricity, maybe? I’m not really sure. I’ve tried it on myself, I can do it just a little and it’s kinda tingly, but it also seems to kill them when I turn it up all the way. It’s stronger if I’ve eaten recently.” 

“That’s pretty cool, actually.” Patrick sounds impressed, intrigued. 

Pete leans back just enough to look up at him. “Do you… do you want to feel it? I can just do it a little bit.” 

Patrick thinks about it for a second, has the thought _death by vampiric electrocution_ , and then says, “Yeah, sure.” 

Pete lays his head back down, and Patrick brings his arm to rest in front of him. Pete rests his fingers lightly on the inside of Patrick’s forearm and begins to swirl them, like Patrick had been doing moments before on Pete’s back. 

He’s right, it tingles. Sort of like hundreds of tiny static shocks. It makes the hair on his arm stand up, but it doesn’t hurt. When Pete moves a little higher, close to his elbow, it actually tickles, and Patrick’s arm jerks involuntarily. Pete jumps back, “I’m sorry-” he offers, hastily. 

Patrick chuckles softly. “No, no, come here, it’s okay,” Pete settles back against him. “It just tickled, that’s all.” He smiles, and pulls Pete close, protective. Pete’s older, but it’s never felt that way - somewhere between his childlike excitement, self-doubt, depression, forgetfulness, impulsiveness, Patrick’s been the one who keeps Pete focused and safe. It’s part of what makes his newfound strength and danger so strange to Patrick, but in this moment, everything is okay. “I’m glad you’re back, Pete,” Patrick whispers. 

He falls asleep there, hoodie in his lap, arm around a vampire who can’t sleep, but doesn’t move all night nonetheless.


	15. In The Dark (Dark)

Within a week, the warehouse looks more or less like a home. Andy, Joe, and Patrick devote the days to raiding their own apartments for furniture and lights that they can use, setting up a mismatched set of beds, couches, tables, and even a corner where all their instruments lie, waiting for use. Andy spends an afternoon teetering on a ladder, replacing all the lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, and by nightfall, Pete awakens to a glorified bachelor pad, lit cheerily in soft white. 

Pete goes out early most nights. Joe pushes back hard when Patrick explains the situation, arguing and shifting uncomfortably. That night, he avoids eye contact with Pete when he gets back. They don’t talk about it, but the tension is palpable, and after a week, Pete comes home with a dark stain on the corner of his mouth, and Joe snaps.

“This is not okay!” He stands, gesturing at Pete. 

Pete drops his gaze, rubs at the crusted blood with his fist. Patrick steps towards Pete, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’s doing what he can, Joe. He’s putting them out of their misery.”

“And what do you think the vampires do when that happens? They run off and kill _someone else_.” Joe sounds frustrated more than angry. “It’s not heroism, okay? Sure, they’re dead faster, but they’re still dead. There’s got to be another way.”

Andy sits up from where he’s laying on the couch. “Look, none of us like it either, but I don’t really know what else we can do at this point. Those vamps are out there either way, it’s not like we’re going to stop them. At least he’s trying to minimize damage.”

Joe goes silent, crossing his arms and glancing moodily around the warehouse. His eyes settle on their boxes of stakes and chains, still piled near the rolling door. “Well, why the hell not?” he says suddenly, turning to the others.

Patrick squints in confusion. “Why not what?”

“Why can’t we stop them? Why can’t we fight?” 

Andy leans forward. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Joe insists. “ _Why can’t we fight them?_ ”

The three men exchange perplexed looks. “Because,” Pete begins, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “They’re faster than you. Stronger. Harder to predict. Not to mention I’m not the only one who can _do_ things. How do you think you’re going to fight something designed exclusively to kill you?”

“Okay,” Joe says a little sarcastically, “I’m not suggesting that we run outside right now and start punching. I’m not stupid. But we could practice. Get weapons. We could learn. And then, maybe, instead of sitting around here every night, watching it get worse, we could _do something about it._ ” He’s greeted with silence, which he takes as a good sign. “Think about it, we’ve got the perfect training partner.” Joe looks at Pete, who shakes his head.

“Oh hell no. No, that is a terrible idea.” Pete searches his friends’ faces, concerned to see that both Andy and Patrick look intrigued. “Come on, seriously. I know I’m doing well, but you’re suggesting I _fight_ you? I don’t want to hurt you guys. I’m not doing it.”

Joe shrugs. “Fine, then. We’ll just figure it out ourselves.”

Pete growls with exasperation. “I am not letting you - this is ridiculous.” But Joe sounds like he means business, and Pete doesn’t trust the way Patrick is nodding along quietly.

“I mean, really, Pete,” Andy says slowly, thoughtfully, “ _you’re the ultimate secret weapon._ ”

Pete goes to say something else, to argue, but Patrick’s quiet, even voice cuts in. “But what if we could get them, Pete? _What if we could get whoever did this to you?_ ” When he meets Patrick’s eyes, he sees a spark of anger, a determination that steels over the hazel-green, turns them deep and grey, and Pete admits to himself that he’s thought about this very thing nearly every night for the last six months. It surprises him to see that Patrick - sweet, forgiving, understanding Patrick - has been thinking it, too. It also surprises him to feel a pang of attraction ( _arousal?_ ) at the idea of Patrick wanting to exact revenge on whatever vampire turned Pete.

Pete pushes the palms of his hands to his eyes, sighing. “Fine, okay.” He never says no to Patrick.

And this is how Patrick finds himself standing in the corner of the warehouse, on top of some exercise mats Andy brought from his in-home gym, facing Pete from about 20 feet away. “You ready?” Pete asks, and Patrick nods, hunching slightly and bringing his arms up in front of him. Pete grins at him, laughs softly. “Just… I don’t know, try to touch me, I guess.” Patrick tenses his body, readies himself for swift action. Andy and Joe stand to the side, watching.

“Three….” Pete begins, counting down.

“Don’t fucking count,” Patrick straightens up. “They’re not going to _warn_ me.” 

Pete shrugs. “Whatever you say, Pattycakes.” He smiles again, mocking, and his fangs melt into sight. With the next blink, Patrick’s facing a vampire, black eyes narrowed. Patrick is preparing himself, determined to do something useful or impressive, when Pete moves. 

He leaps, covering the space in a second, and Patrick is suddenly on his back, Pete perched on top of him, grinning his smug, pointy grin inches from his face. Patrick glares at him, shoves at his chest. “Get off me, Pete, you shit, don’t you laugh at me.” But Pete rolls off him, chuckling anyway. Patrick scrambles to his feet, shooting dirty looks at the other two, both sniggering into their hands on the sideline. 

“Yeah, fuck you guys, too. Let’s see you do it, then.” 

Andy composes himself. “Yeah, okay. Move, then. If anyone’s gonna beat up a vampire, it’s gonna be me.” He takes Patrick’s place on the mat, stretching and looking significantly more prepared than the singer had. But seconds later, Pete’s got Andy face down on the floor, too. Patrick and Joe are nearly doubled over in hysterics. 

“Bang up job, Hurley,” Joe chokes. 

Patrick claps Joe across the back. “Looks like it’s your turn now.” 

Pete turns his vampiric smirk to Joe as Andy clears off the mat. “Bring it, Trohman.” 

“Yeah, no, not like that.” Joe walks to the wall and returns carrying a short length of chain. He cocks an eyebrow at the vampire, challenging him.

Pete inclines his head to grant permission, and gestures for Joe to join him. Joe crouches slightly, like Patrick had, and swings the chain, creating a sort of moving barrier in front of him. Pete jumps, and Joe is pinned anyway, but the chain catches the vampire’s neck and collarbone, and Pete jerks back to standing immediately, rubbing at the seared flesh. 

“ _There we go._ That’s more like it.” Pete sounds impressed, returns to the other side of the mat. “Again.”

By the early hours of the morning, everyone but Pete is exhausted from sparring repeatedly. There is slight improvement, however, mostly drawn from the addition of weapons, and they’ve begun to develop a strategy. ( _“You’re not going to win with speed or strength,” Pete says, “so you’ve got to win with smarts.”_ ) Switching off all but one small lamp, they climb into their respective beds, spaced out around the warehouse and positioned strategically among columns for a half attempt at privacy.

Like every night, Pete foregoes the bed they moved in from his apartment despite Patrick’s insistence that _Guys, this is a waste of time, he is **never** going to sleep here. He never even slept in his own bunk!_ He is curled up along Patrick’s side, which Patrick has found to be significantly more comfortable now that Pete’s total body contact doesn’t make him overheat. Pete traces his fingers absentmindedly along the soft skin on Patrick’s hips and ribs, and Patrick shifts a little to offer greater access. 

“Do the sparks?” he whispers. Patrick’s grown to love the current Pete can produce, feels the sensation pulse across his skin everywhere Pete’s cold fingers touch. It’s stronger now than the first time he did it, almost stings, but the way it dissipates makes Patrick shiver. He sighs, relaxing, and shuts his eyes. A few minutes later, Pete’s fingers stop suddenly. 

“Trick?” he asks quietly. 

“Hmm?” Patrick turns his head towards Pete, pillow only slightly obscuring his vision. 

Pete turns, too, meeting his eyes. “Joe’s right, you know.” His voice is heavy, sad. 

“Right about what, Pete?” Patrick reaches up and pushes a piece of hair off Pete’s face. 

“I shouldn’t be killing them. I don’t _want to_.” He turns to the ceiling. “I just don’t know what else to do.” And even though he’s whispering, Patrick can tell he’s close to tears. He reaches across to hold him, tries to think of something to say, but Pete continues. “I can see it, when they die. There’s a moment, and they go really still, and some part of me _likes it_ and I fucking hate it. And he’s fucking right they just go off and kill someone else, then it’s two dead instead of one, and I just wish-” Patrick pulls Pete close as he starts to cry. He’s at a loss, so he just hums softly, strokes Pete’s hair, trying to figure out what to say. But he doesn’t know, doesn’t have anything to offer, other than comfort, until slowly, Pete goes still, and Patrick falls asleep.


	16. Behind The Trigger

Andy shivers under the streetlight. He wants to wrap his arms around himself, to rub some of the cold away, but that would mean letting go of the weapon in his bag, and he would stand outside naked in a Chicago December before he would do that. _Shit._ This is taking longer than usual.

A rustle to his left startles him, but he leans back into the bench again. The vampires don’t rustle; they hardly make any noise at all, which is worse. You get so little time to prepare. Andy tightens his fist around the whip handle, tries to peer down the dark street, and gets hit sidelong by the creature that had been hiding in the bushes. 

He’s pinned against his own arm, bag strap twisted around his shoulder, but, to his surprise, he manages to push back against the snarling vampire. Andy rolls out from under him, hits the pavement, and shakes the bag away from him. He turns to attack and pauses, startled by how small the creature is, how young. _It’s a fucking teenager._

And the whip is free, silver-laced and glinting in the light, but what the vampire lacks in subtlety and strength he makes up for in speed. He leaps onto Andy, hitting his chest and causing him to stumble backwards. The vampire wraps his arms around him, scrambling for purchase. The whip hits the ground as Andy puts his full strength behind pushing the scrawny teen off him, and he hears Joe to his left.

“Shoot, Patrick! Jeez!” 

“I can’t, asshole, it’s _on his face_.”

Andy almost has him, feels one arm release and slides his forearm between them, when the vampire is pulled off him. Andy trips forward with the momentum and bumps into Pete, who glares back at him as he breaks the teen’s neck, dropping the body unceremoniously to his side.

“You know,” Pete huffs, “You could try not being shitty at this.” 

Andy collects his bag, shoving the whip in agitatedly. “Yeah? Well, next time you be the bait.”

Pete nudges at the body with his foot as Patrick and Joe approach. 

“So they’re turning kids now, huh?” Joe remarks. 

Patrick’s face registers something like disgust. “Apparently.” He engages the safety on the stake gun he’s carrying and slings it over his shoulder. “But I mean, what’s been stopping them up till now? It’s not like they’re thinking about it. They’re just _doing._ ” Andy shrugs.

“Oh come, now. That’s quite an unfair assessment.” The voice is cold, smooth, and unfamiliar. The men wheel around, clutching their weapons. 

The man is impeccably dressed, in a fitted suit and tie, with what appears to be a fur stole draped over his shoulder. He adjusts one shirt sleeve, fingering the cufflink adoringly. His hair is long, dark, pulled back loosely, with bangs that frame soft brown eyes. He looks up, smiling at them. “Nice to meet you, gentlemen. My name is William.” The man glances between them, making eye contact with each in turn, as though waiting for a reply. He rests his gaze on Pete, takes half a step forward. Pete backs up exactly as much.

William sighs. “You know, boys, it is generally considered polite to introduce yourselves when someone has just offered their own name.” Patrick’s heartbeat is loud in his own ears, but otherwise, there is silence. “Well, then,” William says, advancing another step towards Pete, “I suppose it’s a good thing I already know who you are.” 

Pete crouches slightly, aggressive. He narrows his eyes, lets them fill with blackness, and growls through bared fangs. Patrick, Joe, and Andy inch backwards, framing Pete from behind, and William laughs, a soft, icy chuckle. “My dear Peter, you can’t possibly think I’m frightened of you?” 

The feral sound Pete makes suggests that’s exactly what he thinks. Patrick stiffens, reflecting the stress he feels in Pete, and swallows. “So, are you… do you hunt vampires, too?” Patrick asks, and he’s almost proud at how thoroughly unconcerned he manages to sound. Years of interviews and spotlights in spite of paralyzing stage fright have been good for him.

William smiles softly, amused. “While I don’t suppose you’re technically incorrect, I think it would be infinitely more accurate for you to think of me as a _collector._ ” Patrick glances amongst his friends, relieved that they look as confused as he feels. 

“You see,” William explains, stroking the stole with care, “I have a very specific set of preferences, and a certain gift for acquiring things that I find particularly unique.” He meanders slowly around the group, causing them to rotate as a unit. Patrick gets the distinct impression of being herded. William continues on, “So when I find something that I can tell will diversify my portfolio, I simply must have it. And so, in that way, I am a collector.” 

William stops, face turned away from the men. He seems to be waiting for something, but Patrick couldn’t possibly figure out what. “I’m sorry,” he tries, “But I don’t think I understand…?”

“You are very special, Peter. I could sense it the moment I saw you, but I had no idea, no understanding, just how special you’d turn out to be.” He turns to face them once more, eyes locked on Pete, face split in a devious grin. “I couldn’t be more pleased - _thrilled_ , really - with you. And perhaps it’s a tad early to say, but I’m quite certain that you’ll be my new favorite, actually. You lucky boy.” 

Pete snarls. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you had better leave before I fucking rip you apart.” 

A single laugh escapes William, and he advances towards the men. “Oh, how I’d love to see you try.” He reaches up, tucking his bangs behind one ear, and smirks through new fangs, much longer than Pete’s, as his eyes go dark. 

Andy exhales sharply, “Fuck.” Patrick’s jerking the gun off his shoulder, trying to line up, but Pete is already there, flying toward William at supernatural speed. And there should be a collision, the sound of bodies meeting each other in combat but instead there’s nothing. William is missing, vanished from the spot where he stood seconds before. They gape, shocked. They’ve seen fast vampires, certainly, but they were still _visible._

“Such a shame.” His voice comes from behind them, and the four men turn, startled. William adjusts the stole slightly, and shakes his head with a _tsk, tsk_. “As much as I’d love to drain each of you right now, I prefer not to damage my own goods, as it were.” He narrows his gaze at Pete once more. “I’ll be back for my prize.” And with that, he’s gone. Simply gone into the night, leaving behind nothing but a chill that no longer has to do with the fall air.


	17. Hold Me Tight

It goes unspoken that they’re done hunting for the night, the men climbing into the car in complete silence. Joe drives a little faster than usual, pushes the suspension on hard turns; not quite committed to racing home, but anxious to get back nonetheless.

Patrick sits in the back seat with Pete, who’s hunched stiffly in a position that’s only possible because he doesn’t wear a seatbelt these days. Patrick can tell he’s got his jaw clenched, the tendon just below his chin pulled tight. They’re all on edge, but if there’s fear or anger in Pete, Patrick can’t discern which. It’s something, though, he knows. Pete’s gotten expert control over his transformation - can summon and banish his fangs at will - but the blackness gets away from him sometimes, bleeds out of his pupils just enough to cover the brown. Patrick doubts anyone else has noticed, honestly. He spends more time looking at Pete than most people, he figures, and is already so in tune with his Moods. Pete’s eyes are dark tonight.

The car rolls into the alleyway near the warehouse, and Pete’s out the door and out of view before they’ve stopped. The men follow, locking the car and collecting their supplies before walking in silence to the hideout. The lights are out as Patrick leads Joe and Andy inside, an echoing _thud… thud… thud…_ the only indication of Pete. Joe flips a switch and a line of bulbs flare to life, illuminating the vampire, who is launching stake after stake into one of their practice dummies. The lengths of wood stick out haphazardly across its chest, and Pete releases another with a grunt.

Patrick shrugs the strap of his weapon off his shoulder, leaning it against the wall near the door. Joe and Andy carefully avoid Pete, sinking into the couch at the opposite end of the space while Patrick heads to the refrigerator. 

He pulls out a quarter-full bottle, shaking it a little. It’s not nearly enough. Patrick sets it on the counter and reopens the fridge, rummaging for ingredients and tossing them next to the bottle in turn; cloves of garlic, cow and pig blood, a vial of holy water, fennel, Dead Sea salt, chicken liver, and vodka to mask the flavor. It takes about fifteen minutes for Patrick to prepare everything, dicing and stirring and blending until he’s got the bottle filled back to the top, and all the while he hears Pete’s _thud… thud…_ like a metronome keeping time. Finally, Patrick shoves the whole thing in the microwave, putting his materials away while he waits for the _ding_. The glass is hot in his hands when he carries it to Pete.

“Here,” he sighs, holding the bottle out. _Thud._ Pete makes no acknowledgement of the offering, or of Patrick. 

“Come on, Pete.” Patrick wiggles his hand a little, causing the liquid to slosh lightly in its container. “You didn’t get to eat, man.” 

Pete’s voice is low and rough. “I fucking know that, Patrick.” _Thud._

“Well, then, drink it.”

_Thud._ “I don’t fucking want it.” 

“And I don’t fucking care.” 

Pete finally turns to Patrick, irises black and forehead furrowed. He throws the next stake without looking, lodging it directly in the bullseye, and grabs the bottle roughly from Patrick’s hand. Pete gulps down the thick, red liquid, gagging a little around it. Patrick knows how much he must hate it; it’s basically an anti-vampire cocktail, but it does the job, keeping him sane and satiating his bloodlust just enough. It never replaces feeding entirely, but Patrick’s just glad they found something that helps at all, and it’s been months since Pete’s worn his silver bracelets. Pete clears the whole bottle in under a minute, and shoves the empty container back towards Patrick with a cough. “Tastes like ass.” 

“You’re welcome,” Patrick retorts. He accepts the bottle and folds his arms with a hint of irritation. He wants to talk to Pete, wants to know what he’s thinking, but the only thing he can read in Pete’s face is that now is not the time. With a defeated sigh, he leaves Pete to target practice and settles for plucking out chords on his guitar instead.

It’s two hours later when Patrick thinks to text Brendon, and another hour before he’s able to head over, which proves just enough time for Pete to calm down enough to talk. By the time the sunrise tinges the skyline with a dusky grey, Brendon has heard the story of the night many times over. In the last moments of darkness, as Pete excuses himself and slinks off to Patrick’s bed, they agree on the two things they know for sure: _William is dangerous. William must die._

Brendon graciously declines to stay, and drives home in the foggy morning light. He speeds through the city streets, in the company only of the earliest commuters and garbage trucks, and wracks his brain for anything that might help them locate William. He arrives home as the sun crests the horizon, and strips to his boxers before climbing into bed. A late night playing a show turned to an even later night of vampires has left him exhausted, and he falls easily into dreams punctuated by sharp fangs and dark eyes, and the shadow of a creature that he can’t escape.

\-------

Historically, Patrick has had a love-hate relationship with winter months. On the one hand, he never has to take off his hat or leather jacket, and he’s always more comfortable in layers. On the other, he genuinely hates being cold, and aside from musical instruments considers himself to be clumsy and awkward, and icy pavement has always done an excellent job supporting this notion. Now, however, Patrick figures winter might be his new favorite season; shorter days and longer nights mean more and more hours of Pete, and he believes busting ass on some ice is well worth it for that.

Today, it’s Pete who wakes Patrick up, actually, nuzzling against his side and sliding his fingers under the hem of his shirt. It causes Patrick to fidget; mumble in the twilight of some lingering dream. Pete noses against Patrick’s shoulder, savoring his smell, and withdraws the fangs that he always wakes up with before licking a sloppy, wet stripe up the rough stubble on Patrick’s jaw. The singer jolts awake, thrashing and shoving Pete away with “Ew, Pete, what the fuck?” 

Pete chuckles and pins Patrick down easily, leans in to make a go at his other cheek. Patrick struggles helplessly, succeeding only in restricting his own movement by tangling his legs in the sheets. “Pete, I swear to God-” but it’s a useless threat, and Patrick is subjected to yet another slobbery attack. Apparently satisfied with the symmetry of it all, Pete rolls off and perches on the bed next to Patrick, eyes and smile playful. Patrick rubs moodily at his face. “What in the hell, Pete?” he grumbles. He tries his best to sound thoroughly angry, but it’s hard to do with Pete grinning like he is. “You know this is my bed, right? You’re in _my bed_ and you’re _licking my face_ which is, by the way, disgusting.”

Pete flashes a blinding smile. “Well, stop being so delicious, then.” He flops back onto the bed, arm across Patrick’s middle and nose pressed against his shoulder. “Iwrnnagrowht,” he mumbles into Patrick’s shirt. 

Patrick smiles and fingers the hair at the nape of Pete’s neck. “You wanna try that again, there? Maybe in English?”

Pete turns his head just enough to free his mouth. “I wanna go out. We should go out.”

“Yeah, I suppose we can hunt tonight, it’s been a while.” They’ve only hunted a handful of times in the months since the William incident, partially out of unease and partially because the newly fallen snow seems to have driven most of the vampires away. Andy had joked that perhaps they migrate. Pete squeezes Patrick a little tighter - a little _too_ tight - and Patrick grunts. 

“No, no,” Pete looks up at him, chocolate brown eyes huge and shining, “forget hunting. Let’s just _go out._ ” 

“What?”

“You know, go outside. Smell the air. Build a snowman. Something fun.” Pete sits up on his elbow and nudges at Patrick’s side encouragingly. “You remember fun, don’t you, Pattycakes?” 

Patrick’s first instinct is _No_ , but he catches himself on the impulse. They really have been cooped up; with no leads on William and four inches of snow to slow them down, no one’s left the loft except for daytime food runs. Pete hasn’t been out in two weeks, Patrick realizes, and weighs the risks while he tries to ignore the way Pete is bouncing excitedly on his knees next to him. 

Two seconds after Patrick makes up his mind, and precisely one before he opens his mouth to say “Okay”, Pete bounds off the bed with a triumphant whoop and over to his haphazard pile of clothing. He’s humming loudly and pulling a hoodie over two jackets when Patrick finally sits up in bed, and Joe calls from across the room, “What is he doing?”

“Patrick’s taking me out!” Pete replies, a little muffled with his head stuck in the too-tight drawstring he’s fumbling with. 

There’s a rustling that sounds suspiciously like Joe rolling over to go back to sleep. “Yeah alright, just keep him on his leash.” Patrick chuckles and climbs out of bed, padding over to the kitchen in sock feet. If Pete’s going to drag him into the freezing night he’s at least going to microwave a waffle first.

Patrick savors his off-brand frozen waffle as best he can, and Pete really must be desperate because he preps himself two full glasses of his concoction and drinks them without comment or complaint. Andy has begun his daily workout in the corner when Patrick starts layering clothes to brave the cold, and it takes him long enough that Joe is settled in front of Overwatch by the time he’s ready to go. Pete bounces along nearby the whole time, humming.

When they roll the sliding door up, Patrick is pleased to see that, although cold, there’s almost no wind. Pete darts immediately into the snow, jumping high into the drifts and then clambering out again. Patrick wonders if maybe he actually should have brought a leash, but he shuts the door behind him, shoves both hands into his pockets, and follows Pete towards the main road. Pete makes a few more snow leaps and then circles back to where Patrick is. He threads one arm through Patrick’s elbow and pulls him close until they’re walking hip to hip. “Where to, Lunchbox?” 

“You tell me, Pete. You wanted fun; what sounds fun to you?” Patrick smiles and watches Pete think. They reach the end of the alleyway and take a step onto the larger sidewalk. Pete stops, taking a deep breath to check for vamps. He seems satisfied, turns his head right, then left again, peering down the street. “ _This way!_ ” Pete announces importantly, dragging Patrick elbow first down the road. Patrick scrambles to catch his feet up with the rest of him, settling into a near trot alongside Pete. To the best of his knowledge, there’s nothing of interest this way, but he supposes it doesn’t matter; Pete seems thoroughly pleased, and they weave between pedestrians along the frosty concrete. 

There are fewer people around than there used to be; fewer cars zipping past into the dark. Patrick wonders how many are turned, or dead, and how many others have just left. The city has been on high alert for almost a year now, scared of whatever gang or serial killer or new designer drug is responsible for all the missing persons. _Vigilance is useless if you’re hiding from the wrong thing_ , Patrick thinks, and leans closer to Pete. It’s only an inch, but the vampire feels it like a mile, and grins a cheshire cat grin that glows in the amber light of the street lamp. 

They walk arm in arm for nearly half an hour, and Patrick is just beginning to wish he’d worn two pairs of gloves instead of one when Pete disentangles himself and proclaims, “Here!” 

_Here_ turns out to be a deserted swing set, its legs buried half a foot deep in snow. The chain link fence around it suggests the area is probably some kind of urban revival project’s excuse for a park, and a particularly tall mound of white off to the side might be a toddler slide or unbalanced merry-go-round. Pete bounds to the swings, plopping into one and patting the seat of the other in invitation. 

Patrick doesn’t sprint like Pete did, can’t see as well in the dark, but he makes his way over and brushes the ice off the swing before lowering himself into it. The chains creak angrily, flecks of ice and snow raining down around him. He watches with amusement as Pete kicks off, pushing himself back and up into the air. Patrick follows suit, grinning even as the wind makes his lungs hurt and his eyes water. 

They swing higher and higher, freezing air stinging their faces, until Pete launches himself at the apex, flinging into a particularly deep snowbank with just _slightly_ too much grace to be human. He sends up a puff of powder, which he shakes out of his dark hair, laughing. “Come on!” he calls back to Patrick.

And normally he wouldn’t. Patrick does not leap out of swings, doesn’t like the idea of ice melting down his shirt and the possibility of a rock or branch hiding maliciously in the snow. Reckless behavior is Pete’s job; Patrick’s is to minimize the damage. But the night is quiet and crisp, the city lights reflected in the sparkling snow, and for the first time in a year, Patrick feels free. No vampires to stake, no lost friends to search for, not even an album deadline to meet or a setlist to plan. It’s just him and Pete. Pete, who’s sitting spread-legged in a pile of snow, giggling to himself as he pelts tiny snowballs at Patrick. Pete, who’s just Pete right now, wearing the same oversized hoodie he’s owned for five years and a pair of combat boots that might be even older. Pete, who’s changed in so many ways, but not in any of the ways that matter. This year has been exhausting, has made Patrick angry and tired - bitter, even. But tonight there is none of that, and he ducks under another snowball from Pete before letting go, flying, landing next to him in the powder. 

Pete goes to shovel a mound of snow over Patrick’s face, but he’s ready, and dodges, tackling Pete and pushing him deeper into the bank instead. Pete flails a little under him, but Patrick can tell he’s holding back, knows he’d be thrown in a heartbeat if Pete really wanted him off. Instead, Pete wraps his arms around Patrick’s back, pulling him into the snow in a bear hug, and chuckles. Patrick joins in, and it’s cold and damp, but the laughter is loud and deep to make up for it. 

They lie there, surrounded by silence and snow, breathing in tandem. Patrick rests his head against Pete’s shoulder and looks up at him. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” 

“Breathe,” Patrick says, “Or, I mean, pretend to. It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.” 

Pete huffs with amusement. “Well, thanks, I guess, but I like it. Especially out here. It smells nice.” He hugs Patrick tighter, inhales. “ _You_ smell nice.” He can feel Patrick smile against him.

When Patrick sits up, he slides into the space between Pete’s knees, face painted with wistfulness. Pete leans forward, shaking the accumulated snow off his head and shoulders, and questions, “What is it? You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” He squints, as though he’s going to see the words he wants somewhere off in the distance. “This is just nice, that’s all. I thought… well, I thought I’d lost you three times this year, Pete. And… this is just really, really nice.” His eyes are soft when he looks at Pete, who leans towards him, wraps a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck.

“You and me? We’re legendary.” He shakes Patrick lightly for emphasis. “Have been forever. And I’m not going anywhere, okay? You totally saved me, like you have every damn day of my life, and at the very least I’ve gotta stick around until I’ve paid you back for that, which, I figure, will never happen.” Pete grins, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re stuck with me, Stump.”

Patrick returns the smile. “Good.” His word is a warm cloud between them, dissipating into the air, and he moves through it, closing the short distance and pressing his lips to Pete’s. This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed - not by a long shot, thanks to Pete - but it’s new this time, and different. Patrick leans into him, one hand bracing against the angle in the snow, and the other finding Pete’s hip, pulling him closer. He moves against Pete’s mouth, which opens greedily into Patrick’s exploration. Then, Pete’s pulling him forward, hand firm on the base of his skull, and they’re back in the snow, each acutely aware of everywhere their bodies touch. Patrick wants to stay forever, thinks _I’m never going home_ , and Pete could probably be out here indefinitely; but Patrick’s clothes are wet now, soaked in melted snow, and maybe even sweat, and he begins to shiver. Pete notices immediately, lifting Patrick off of him, and murmuring, “Let’s get you inside,” as he stands and pulls Patrick to his feet. Patrick sighs, suddenly empty with the loss of contact, but goes obediently. It’s getting late anyways.

The walk home is slower, and Pete presses his whole side along Patrick’s, arm slung low around his waist. They talk and laugh and trade sideways glances the whole way, and if Patrick leans over to kiss Pete once or twice, well, who’s counting.

There’s a familiar car outside the warehouse when they stumble back, and their arrival syncs to Andy, Joe, and Brendon exclaiming wildly over some excellent use of a Bob-omb in Mario Kart. They greet the gamers cheerily, and change quickly into dry clothes before grabbing a beer and joining the group around the television. Patrick’s not in the mood to play, so instead he accepts Pete onto his lap, scratching his back lightly, and cheering every time he drives off a level. 

Patrick wants to hang an anchor from the sun, hates when Brendon packs up later to head home. But he threads his fingers through Pete’s and leads him back to the couch, where they have a few hours of Netflix to kill before sunrise. He lets Pete choose - _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , surprise, surprise - and proceeds to make it his mission to distract him completely. When Patrick awakes in the early hours of the day, he carries Pete with him back to the bed. 

\-----

Brendon parks outside his apartment, tired after another long night, but energized from the drinks and games. He’s a true extrovert, he knows, and grins to himself as he locks the car behind him, suppressing the concern that he has an interview with GQ in five hours. He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads up the steps. 

The street is still dark, bathed only in yellowed lights that make a feeble attempt to punctuate the blackness of winter. It’s just past four, the part of the morning when everything grows unnaturally still, and even the air seems to go to sleep. This makes the movement behind him all the more startling.

“Brendon!” The voice is deep and cheerful, calling to him like an old friend. “Greetings!” Brendon wheels around, drops his bag to his side in the frost with surprise. The man emerges from the shadows silently, and smiles, brushing his bangs behind his ears. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m William.”


End file.
